Resolve
by notunbroken
Summary: As he returns to work, Andy reflects on changes in the Murder Room and the course of action that saved Sharon's life. (AU from the middle of episode 6x09.)
1. Only the Beginning

_A/N: It was brought to my attention by a kind samaritan that a good chunk of the party is over here on FFN, as opposed to Ao3. So I decided to join in! Apologies to those of you who've seen this before...the only good news I have for you is that the first chapter of Resolve's sequel is nearly finished and should be up (both here and elsewhere) shortly._

 _I'll be reposting the rest of my stories here, as well._

 _As for this one, the first chapter re-purposes what happened at the end of 6x09. If you want to avoid reading a retelling of the office scene, look for the set of three line breaks:_  
 _—_  
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 _and scroll until you hit the second set of three line breaks. Then read on!_

When he returns to the office, Andy convinces Buzz to trade desks with him. He isn't above playing the guilt card, if he needs to, but Buzz doesn't argue. He doesn't even roll his eyes at the suggestion. They spend a half hour carrying armloads of stuff back and forth across the Murder Room in near-silence, until nothing of them remains at their old desks.

The back office is too empty, now. It's like an open sore. It's about to be invaded, that space that still screams _Sharon_ to Andy, and he can think of few things worse than sitting within earshot when that happens.

He knows where she is right now. Even still, he expects her to walk out that door any second, pulling on her jacket as she goes, heels clicking against the tile.

Sharon's plaques, her artwork, her heavy glass nameplate, the blotter, the flowers on the table, they're all packed away or gone. The lemon yellow loveseat — that resale shop find they'd moved in after the explosion — now lives in Rusty's room at home.

But it all might as well still be there, for as much as anyone else belongs in that office.

Andy swiped one memento, one thing that wouldn't be missed, before Facilities came to do a deep clean. (Joke's on them. That room was spotless.) The insert from the doorplate nearest to his old spot, proudly reading "Commander Sharon Raydor," now lives in the top drawer of his desk, next to a long-ago-fired beanbag round.

(He's pretty sure Sykes swiped its twin from the other door.)

Two more items joined the knick-knacks from his old desk on top of the new one. Two framed photos, two little reminders that he hadn't needed before. One is a professionally shot portrait, from Sharon's promotion ceremony, of himself and Sharon and Rusty. Their little family-within-a-family, recorded on a proud day, a star glinting from each side of her uniform collar.

The other is a little grainy, a little blurry in places. This one Andy shot himself, on his phone, as he held it up in the dying light of a San Diego evening. He'd captured Sharon, loose and happy, looking at him sidelong with a sly smile as the sunset cast red-orange light onto her. In short, she was breathtaking, and even as the moment happened, he'd known he wanted to keep her like that forever.

She'd gotten a little flustered when he held up his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Taking your picture."

With an eye roll and a short laugh, she asked, "Why?"

"Because you're beautiful." She looked down, and he knew she was blushing, even if sunlight overpowered the sight. "And because we're on vacation, and vacation is about making memories."

That's when he earned the look in the photo. He tapped the shutter button just before she reached for his phone. "If you're interested in making a memory," she said, voice silky, "then you should put the phone down."

She did that for him, slipping the device into her jacket before sidling up to him. "Because I can think of much, much better things to be doing during a sunset."

To demonstrate, she nibbled at his earlobe, running one hand across his chest as the other threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck. From her, in a public setting — okay, semi-public, given their sandy surroundings had cleared as the sun sank into the Pacific — the advance was a surprising, sweet, and undeniably sexy move. And, of course, she was right. Making out on the beach, like teenagers who snuck out after curfew, was one hell of a memory, one that only got better as the night went on.

A clearing throat breaks his train of thought. Steeling himself for the conversation he's about to have, Andy settles the frame next to his monitor and turns to find his partner staring at him, cross-armed and frowning.

"What the hell are you doing here, Flynn?"

"Working, hopefully." He aims for a smirk, knowing it'll fall short. "Someone's gotta make the mortgage payment."

"You still have a week of leave on the calendar."

"All's quiet on the homefront, and I've been accused of _hovering_. So I thought I'd come in and hover professionally."

"Uh-huh. And stare daggers at our new captain professionally, too?"

Andy holds his hands out. "It _is_ a tradition. I wouldn't want the guy to feel left out."

"This poor asshole has no idea what he's getting himself into." Provenza shakes his head. "But even so, you don't need to be here to see it."

"Look, it's never gonna get any easier. I might as well rip the bandage off with the rest of you."

"Fine. Fine." He takes a few steps toward his desk, before turning back with a point. "But don't forget. I still have your wife on speed dial."

—

When Andy asked Sharon to marry him, it was with the resolve that their union last as long as possible. At the time, it seemed as if his stubborn heart would be the biggest barrier. So he made his commitment to her double as a commitment to keep his shit together, health-wise. (He'd long ago resolved to keep the rest of his shit together, for her, to be the kind of partner she deserved.)

Neither of them considered that she might have to do the same.

—

In the end, Andy did something that he told himself he'd never need to do to Sharon.

He begged her to stay.

—

It's easy enough to blame his brain, the part of his subconscious that gathered potential horrors as the rest of him focused on optimism and treatments and making plans. In the daylight, it was straightforward, letting practical concerns drown out the rest. Noting appointments and dosages and side effects, keeping an eye on Sharon's body language for signs of concern, his dedication to keeping her well ate up most of his thoughts. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

But, at night, the deep corners of his mind fired up. He laid awake in bed listening to her breaths, driven to burn into his memory every second, every sensation, every feeling that rose in him as he held her; the way her fingers curled around his wrist, as if she was towing him along in sleep the way she would gently pull him into her office, toward bloodied evidence at a crime scene, to the dance floor in an ethereal white dress.

Andy had lost count of the nights he'd spent like this, the hours of rest he'd gladly given away. But, eventually, exhaustion won out. It pulled him into a deep sleep, and out came the worst-case scenario, an all-too-real possibility that some part of him had stored away.

—

—

The nightmare came quick in sleep, just as it would in the physical world. Just as he'd seen it almost play out a few weeks before.

There's always been something about interrogations, something that brings out particular elements of pure Sharonness. Her wit, her ferocious intelligence, the vice-grip control she exercises until the perfect moment, until she uses all her anger like a sword, slicing through excuses and equivocations until only the truth remains.

Andy conducted several of his best interviews at Sharon's side. She was often a sight to behold.

Maybe it was this appreciation that made an interrogation the canvas onto which his mind painted the most disturbing outcome.

One second, she was in perfect, pointed fury, on the verge of victory.

The next, she crumpled, collapsed like a skyscraper under demolition.

He was pulled to her like a magnet, out one door, across a room and into another, on feet that hit the floor an impossibly few times between here and there.

He allowed himself to think that this was like the last time. She'd be out for a few seconds, only to come to on the way to the ER. But after Julio eased her to the floor, he started chest compressions.

 _Sharon. Sharon. Sharon. What happened? What did you do?_

Andy took her hand, oblivious to the flurry of action surrounding him. There was only his wife, lying beautiful and serene, oblivious to the panic she set off. She was gonna be a little annoyed upon lifting back into consciousness, to see everyone losing their shit over her.

With careful movements, Andy slid her glasses from her face and into the pocket of his jacket. He'd wanted to see when her eyelids started fluttering, when she started coming back to him. He was calm and sure, ready to be the first face she saw when she opened her eyes.

But she didn't move and she didn't move and she didn't move and she didn't move and Julio kept pumping at her chest and Rusty's voice choked into a sob outside the door and someone's hand landed firmly on Andy's shoulder and then nothing made sense and nothing was right and lizard-brain level grief struggled to claw its way out of him.

"Andy."

It was Sharon's voice, somehow, and for a second it was so perverse, so opposed to what he was seeing, that he was sure he'd lost his mind.

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "Andy."

—

—

He opened his eyes.

Sharon stared down at him, eyebrows lifted, mouth pressed into a firm line. Her hand was clamped on his shoulder. Blinking against the daylight streaming into their bedroom, he tried to relax out of his horror. Her mouth quirked into a sad half-grin that said she knew, roughly, what he'd been seeing. Had he been calling to her, out loud, through his dream?

"You okay?" She moved her hand from his shoulder, drew it over his shirt to rest on his chest. Snuck a check of _his_ heart, since irony was still alive and kicking with full force.

"Uh," he started, but nothing followed. He rubbed at his eyes, considering how not okay he was, how infinitely less okay he would be if that nightmare came true, and how much of this he should tell her. When he dropped his hand, his fingers came away wet.

"Oh," she sighed, "darling."

She settled against his side, where he could wrap his arms around her. With her head on his shoulder, he held his lips to her hair until the last wisps of shock from the nightmare floated away.

Andy couldn't see in his actual life what he saw in that dream. He couldn't let it come to pass. Not in their circumstances, when things were so good. Not when there were still weapons they could use to fight.

"Sharon—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I know this is up to you. And I know you're conflicted over your choices."

"But?" The familiar one-word question didn't hold the annoyance she often laces it with. Here, it was all cautious curiosity.

"But. I can't watch you die. I can't." He closed his eyes against the tears pressing on them, gave up on keeping his voice steady. "Especially not when you still have options."

She shifted, and then she was pressing kisses to his forehead, to his eyelids, to his nose, until she finally rested her forehead against his. He held her tighter, pushing onward, underlining a point he tried to make the day before. "I would gladly do anything. _Anything_. Without question. To keep you here with me. To help you get well." He wished he could take this truth and tuck it into her head, to make her understand how much he meant it. "That would be the furthest thing from a burden, to me. It would be an honor. One you deserve."

A few drops fell from her eyes, onto his cheek. She sighed thickly and brushed them away before slipping back to her original spot, her head tucked against his shoulder. It wasn't long before his t-shirt dampened beneath her face.

Andy ran his fingers through her hair. "Talk to me, Sharon."

She stared out the window for a few moments. The early morning sunlight made her eyes look like a spring day. With a long exhale, she curled her hand, tugging the cotton of his shirt into the middle of a fist. "I was right."

"You're gonna have to be more specific," he said, squeezing her hip.

She breathed out a laugh, a tiny recognition of the compliment. "Everything changed after that appointment."

"Not everything," he reminded her.

Releasing his shirt, she lifted her hand to trace his jawline. She searched his face. For what, he could have only guessed. "I _do_ love you. I can't even say…" She trailed off, with a tight shake of her head.

He hated himself, a little, even before he voiced the first thought that rushed forward. But it was true, even as it was selfish, and he knew he would've hated himself even more if he never said it out loud.

"Then stay with me." He ran his thumb across her cheek. "Please. Please. Stay with me."

Her face crumpled. "I'm so scared."

"I know. I know." He held her again, as her breathing hitched and tears streamed down her face. He dropped his voice to a murmur. "I'm scared, too. It's okay to be scared about the heart thing." He smoothed a palm down her back, hoping to calm her. "But, babe, you don't need to be scared of me losing interest, or getting tired of caring, or leaving you in the lurch. Trust me."

"I—" She pulled back enough to look at him fully, her expression knotted with confusion. "Of course I trust you, Andy."

He raised an eyebrow, an emphasis to his point. "Then trust me to take care of you." After unwinding his arm from around her, he held his watch where she could see it. "Only the beginning, remember?"

He had proposed to her with those words, words he believed from the depths of his soul. They were words Sharon had passed back to him, engraved on the back of a watch she gave him, via Rusty, on the morning of their wedding. Now he needed her to believe them, to live them out by his side.

A heartbreaking sound, something like a whimper, escaped her throat. But then she echoed him, in a whisper. "Only the beginning." As she rubbed an absentminded pattern on his chest, he could see her gears cranking, all of the possibilities and probabilities and likelihoods flashing through her mind.

A few long seconds later, she said, "Okay." Her voice was back to its usual firmness.

A rush of hope shot through him. "Okay? You'll go to another appointment with the cardiologist?"

Her lips curled into a small, but real, smile. "Yes."

The sigh he released at that point flushed several days' worth of tension and fear from his body. She wasn't in the clear, not yet. But she was willing to fight, with his help.

With full awareness that he was pushing it, he said, "Can I ask one more thing?"

"While I'm in an accommodating mood?" She snorts — actually _snorts_ , in this conversation — and Andy's love for this woman, his _wife_ , the person to whom he promised himself forever, had never been more clear. "Go ahead."

"We both know this is getting tough. How do you feel about talking to a counselor?"

—

Andy hadn't given enough consideration to how difficult his return to work would be. His squadmates are great, of course, ribbing him about his new desk and his surprise appearance. There's hesitation in the humor, though. None of them are ready to start a new phase, to have an interloper installed as their CO.

And, as if he's walking around with a bleeding wound, they all know that Andy will feel it the most.

—

The entire group held vigil with him and Rusty during the surgery, the most excruciating hours of his life. Their devotion to Sharon was stunning in its simplicity, in its straightforwardness. Andy had called Provenza to tell him she'd gotten a heart, after six weeks of anxiety and hope that flared with every phone call. By the time he walked into the waiting room an hour later, having just seen Sharon off to the operating suite, the entire squad was assembled there, along with Patrice and Andrea. They showed up at 5 in the morning, with a tray of pastries that no one touched and boxes of coffee they drank in near-silence.

Provenza explained later on that he hadn't asked anyone to come. Just like Andy hadn't asked Provenza and Patrice to come. At being told about the surgery, each of them asked "when" and "where" and showed up.

It was a collective gesture of support that Andy will never be able to return in kind. But he'll sure as hell try.


	2. Merry and Bright

Around noon on Christmas Eve, as Sharon unearthed her punch set and Andy sat surrounded by wrapping supplies he tried to ignore, Nicole stopped by the condo to deliver a couple of cheesecakes for the evening. Connor and Liam, her twin stepsons, were along for the trip. They came through the front door like a gust of wind, singing and giggling over the "Batman smells" variation of Jingle Bells, a longtime favorite of eight-year-old boys everywhere.

Dean had been called into work for a supposed "emergency," a situation that raised Andy's suspicion more than a little. But he kept his mouth shut. As Nicole took a breather, the kids were more than happy to give their step-grandparents a full recap on their morning of holiday errands, which came complete with a last-minute visit to Santa at the Grove.

"He was kinda sleepy," Connor said, leaning onto the coffee table as he finished his story.

Nicole winced. "Yeah, Santa was a little...short today."

"He didn't even ask what I wanted for Christmas," Liam added.

"Oh my," Sharon gasped, making a show of being shocked. "What kind of Santa does that?"

Connor responded with the kind of wide-eyed seriousness that only kids can muster. "A bad one."

By this time, Liam had stretched out on the couch next to Andy, his neon green sneakers dangling off the side and his head lolling against the cushions. The little guy was fading fast. Nicole noticed, too, and tried to rally the troops. She rose and made a pushing motion toward the door, clapping her hands together. "Just a few more stops, boys!"

Nicole had embraced her role as the twins' third parent over the past few years, especially given their mom's near-absence from the scene. Wrangling them solo for a day wasn't an end-0f-the-world situation. Not on a normal day, anyway. But on this big holiday, her original hint of fluster became an all-out onslaught when Liam kicked his legs and whined, "Noooo!" He pouted. "We need to go home and wait for Santa!"

Connor blinked over at his brother. "We can wait for Santa anywhere, dummy."

"Hey," Andy tapped his shoulder, trying to enforce a rule that he'd always struggled with himself: "Be nice."

He dropped his chin, chagrined. "Sorry," but then he stared back at Liam. "We still have dinner _and_ church. _Then_ Santa."

Liam's whine became a drawn-out, nonverbal thing. Nicole dropped her head back. "Kiddos…"

She let the word hang in slight desperation, no doubt deciding which of her remaining stops could be dropped, which could be shortened.

Sharon frowned, looking at their visitors. Her eyes flitted to Andy's, and in that briefest of moments he knew she was about to over-commit. "We could watch them for the afternoon," she told Nicole, before turning to the boys. "How does that sound?"

Liam perked up, even if he didn't move from his blob form on the couch. Connor smiled and said, "Yeah!" He bounced a little in his seat.

Nicole traded an unspoken question with Andy. _Is this okay?_ Before he could fully think through an alternative, Sharon, sitting between them, picked up on the exchange. Her expression lost some of its luster. She lifted a defiant eyebrow, which she directed at Andy. "We'd be happy to help out. Right?"

"Well, sure…"Andy started, considering the most diplomatic way to point out that there was still a lot of day left until midnight. His daughter picked him up.

"I wouldn't want to impose," Nicole said.

"It's no trouble." The edge in Sharon's voice made clear that the conversation was over. She turned to Connor, then Liam, with a bright smile. "In fact, I was just about to make cookies, and I could use some help."

Liam yawned, but Connor's face lit up in kind. His pure joy at the suggestion was a perfect match for Sharon's Christmas enthusiasm; the enthusiasm she'd had to scale back, or at least modify, over the past month.

The season had been marked by a string of resented concessions to her weakened heart. Andy had hauled her boxes (and boxes, and boxes) of decorations up from storage one morning while she slept in. He and Rusty set up the tree and strung it with lights, left it waiting for her to bedazzle. She'd ordered most of her gifts online. They'd agreed to buy a premade Christmas Eve turkey dinner and let Ricky and Rusty arrange to pick it up.

But there were institutions Sharon clutched close. She had insisted on extending the Christmas tradition she shared with Andy, so they'd spent an evening out at a French bistro and the Nutcracker. Midnight mass, of course, was never in question. Neither was the homemade eggnog, angels on display absolutely _everywhere_ , piles of crisply wrapped presents under the tree, poinsettias dotting the condo, or her most-loved CD of carols playing on repeat.

Apparently made-from-scratch cookies were a secret addition to the list. Andy was hard-pressed to figure out when she'd even bought the ingredients.

With her plan set, Sharon shuffled Nicole toward the door, sans step-kids. They settled on a schedule of events that would bring Dean and Nicole back to the condo for dinner at seven, with the boys' church outfits in tow.

"Why don't you have your brother go to the grocery store? It sounds like you've done enough for today." The richness of this observation, coming from Sharon, had Andy shaking his head. His gaze lifted to the ceiling when she added, "Go home and rest for a while."

"You know what? I think I will." Nicole paused in the doorway, turned back inside. "Be good, guys."

"We will," the twins responded, in a vaguely creepy, sing-song unison.

"You too, Dad."

"I can't make any promises, sweetheart."

Sharon muttered something to Nicole as she closed the door. Back in the living room, she said, "Okay, where are my helpers?"

Connor raced around the couch, beelining for the kitchen. "Here!"

Andy nudged Liam, whose blinks were getting longer by the second. "You wanna make cookies with Grandma and Connor?" The kid rolled his head back and forth in response. "You wanna sit here and help me wrap presents?" After a moment, his shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug. "Okay, buddy. Close enough for me."

Liam was out cold before Andy so much as unrolled the next length of wrapping paper. Before he set to cutting, he reached over and pulled the throw from the back of the couch, tucking it over the kid's shoulders and around his legs. He turned the tv down a few notches.

Before long, the mixer whirred to life in the kitchen. Sharon narrated each addition in her steady, patient way. "Okay, drop those eggs in….now add the vanilla...good job!"

Onto his base layer of wrapping paper, Andy rested an oddly shaped box. It contained a heavy-duty bike lock for Emily (a necessity in New York) and represented the wrapping project he'd dreaded all along. The baking sounds from the kitchen faded into the background as he folded and taped and taped some more, managed to rip the paper, tore it off, and started again. The second attempt was more successful, though still not pretty.

But the lock was concealed and (hopefully) openable. That was all that mattered.

With that behind him, Andy got on a roll packaging normal, blessedly rectangular, boxes, big and small, in a steady rhythm. True, a couple of Rams offensive series succeeded in stealing his attention. But he'd put a decent dent in his wrapping by the time the scent of cookies met him on the couch. He craned his neck to check on the Keebler elves' progress just in time to see Sharon rub along her hairline.

"You're doing a great job moving those snowmen, Connor," she said, backing away from the kitchen. "Go ahead and empty the cookie sheets, and I'll be right back to get the next batch going."

Something about the amount of breath in her voice set Andy's nerves on edge. He feigned interest in the gift bag propped open at his side, watching from the corner of his eye as Sharon made her way to the bedroom. Her hand ran along the wall as she went, steadying her steps.

Following a quick peek in on Connor, Andy followed her, half-closing the door behind them. He found her at the dresser, standing over her red silk Christmas tablecloth with her usually impeccable posture drooped. As he approached her, she didn't react to his presence.

"Hey." He brushed his palm down her spine. "You feeling okay?"

She started, then straightened into a rigid line. "I'm fine."

The weight in her shoulders said the opposite, and it sent a further stab of concern through him. He tried to talk around his worry. "Connor can be kind of a handful—"

"No, he's great," she said, eyes downcast. Her fingers smoothed over the white poinsettias embroidered on the silk, her voice warming. "He's so excited. They both are. It reminds me of the best Christmases, back when the kids were little."

"Well, I'd be happy to herd some of that excitement, if it gets to be too much."

A short, sharp breath escapes her lips. She re-folds the tablecloth into a perfect square. "It won't be. We just have one more batch of cookies to make for the reception, then we'll frost the sugar cookies, once they've cooled."

"Yeah, uh, isn't that a little…" he searched for the right word. "Demanding?"

Her voice sharpened like a blade along whetstone, a warning he would've been smart to acknowledge. "There's nothing demanding about throwing flour, sugar, and butter into the mixer."

"Okay. I'm just saying, if you start to feel—"

She whirled on him. "I can bake some damned cookies without keeling over, Andy!"

The force of her anger hit him like a brick. She kept piling on, her glare burning. Her voice was low, but dangerous. "I am _not_ going to live my life like a doll in a box." She jammed her finger into his shoulder. "How am I supposed to enjoy _anything_ when everyone acts like I'm going to drop at any second?"

Standing with his mouth hanging open, Andy didn't have an answer. His only concern, for weeks now, had been her physical well-being. It had overshadowed everything. Without realizing it, by relying on that singular focus, he'd threatened to rob her of something just as precious as her health.

In fact, maybe he'd already done that. Maybe they'd both failed to find the line, the exact balance of stillness and motion that would keep her both alive _and_ living.

Sharon sniffed and swiped at her eyes, pressed the tablecloth into his chest as she stepped around him. If nothing else, the slump was gone. "Please put this on the table."

His eyes trailed her out to the living room, where she peered over the couch to check on Liam, and around the corner. From the kitchen, her voice traveled thick and forcefully bright. "Oh my goodness, Connor, that is just...that's the best cookie I've ever seen!"

"I used the blue icing, since blue is cold."

"I love it!"

Andy took a few minutes' buffer in the bedroom. He thought about boundaries and necessities and his failure in navigating the two. He pulled a few last gift boxes from the closet and laid out his clothes for mass. Once the coast was clear, he spread the tablecloth, as requested, onto the dining room table.

Otherwise, he avoided the greater kitchen area as frosted sugar cookies piled up and something chocolatey-sweet warmed in the oven. He fought the urge to glance backward, evenly splitting his attention between the Rams and wrapping his remaining gifts. He honored Sharon's anger. Liam rolled around on the couch now and then, tangling the throw around his legs, but didn't wake up.

Only after Andy (finally) slapped the label on his last present and found a spot for it under the tree, did he turn his attention to the impromptu bakery that had sprung up in his home. Compared to his brother, Connor was the Energizer bunny. His chatter, which Sharon returned with equal spirit, hadn't slowed all afternoon.

As if he'd stumbled across a snake on the sidewalk, Andy wandered towards the kitchen with caution.

"They had us stand there forever," Connor held his arms up, his hands nearly joined over his head. "Like this."

Sharon beamed. "I know! I saw!"

"Oh, yeah! Did you like it?"

"I did."

As Andy drew around the island, he recognized the way Sharon braced herself against the counter, even as her smile held steady. A sheen of sweat reflected across her forehead and her face had gone white. A pit formed in his gut. But still, she shined. "That might have been my favorite Nutcracker so far."

Stepping close to her, Andy rubbed Sharon's shoulder. But it was Connor he watched. The kid used a butter knife to spread a huge glob of green icing onto a tree-shaped cookie. "How's it going over there?"

"So good," Connor turned around. His lips were stained blue, giving away the source of his unending energy. "Grandpa, did you see all these cookies?"

Nearly every surface in the kitchen held a wire rack, each holding a layer of cookies. "Yeah, I see them. How many did you eat so far?"

Connor's eyes darted to Sharon before he answered. "Only two."

"Of each," she clarified.

"Yeah, of each." Connor turned back to cookie duty, humming one of those Nutcracker songs as he reloaded his knife with frosting.

While the kid was distracted, Sharon gripped Andy's arm. She turned to whisper in his ear. "Can you take over in here?"

"Of course."

She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, before she headed to the bedroom.

—

Sharon spent the drive to Saint Joseph's twisted around in her seat, gossiping with Emily. Apparently Jack's brother had flown to LA for the holiday. Much family drama followed. Although Andy had no idea who any of the players were, and he couldn't have cared less about the outcome, he was thankful for the distraction on what might have otherwise been a long ride.

It wasn't like Sharon had spent the evening giving Andy the silent treatment. She'd been, unsurprisingly, focused on the kids, making sure their Christmas was as perfect as possible. Ricky and Rusty had shown up with the food while she napped. With help from Andy, Connor, and a freshly woken Liam, they'd returned the kitchen to its pre-cookie spotless state. Emily arrived from her dad's house and set out a cheese plate as dinner warmed in the oven. Nicole and Dean came shortly afterward and got the boys cleaned up and into their church clothes.

By the time Sharon stepped out of the bedroom, impeccable as ever in a black skirt and evergreen blouse, most everyone had gathered around the kitchen counter, sipping eggnog and sharing vintage Christmas memories. Ricky sat at the coffee table with Connor and Liam, playing a spirited game of Uno.

Rusty spotted her first, and his expression shifted from joy to guilt in the span of about a half second. "Hey, Mom." He shifted toward Dean, making room for her at the counter.

Though her voice was light, Sharon's stare was steely and fixed on Andy when she said, "Oh, I didn't realize everyone was getting here already."

She'd been ready to drop earlier, and now she looked ready for a second round. What was there to say? _I'm sorry I let you sleep?_ He wasn't. _I guess I should've woken you_? He wouldn't have. Rather than answering, he held her stare, returning it with a faint grin. _Be pissed at me. I don't care_.

Emily saved the moment, stepping forward to embrace her. "Don't worry, Mom. You're just in time."

"Yeah," Nicole added, "we couldn't have started without you."

Regardless of the truth in that statement, Sharon mostly kept Andy at arm's length from there, as she fussed over the kids and finished setting up for dinner. The one exception came at a quarter after seven, when he gave into his concern and checked his watch. Dinner was ready, the natives were getting restless, and his son was nowhere to be seen.

He expected his phone to ring at any time, signalling that Nate was stuck at work, or that he had to jet off to God-knows-where, or that he'd simply changed his mind about coming. Andy thought it'd been just a little too good to be true, the way Nate had accepted the Christmas Eve invitation right away. It was more realistic for Andy to be worried about him showing up.

On her way from plating turkey at the stove to arranging the platter at the table, Sharon ran her hand along his shoulders. "He'll be here."

Within a few seconds, as if she'd summoned their final guest through sheer force of will, a knock sounded from the front door. She glanced back to Andy, wearing a mischievous smile. "I'll get it."

He traced her path, rounding the corner just in time to watch her pull the door open. "Oh, there you are!"

"Hi Sharon." Nate's voice carried down the hall. "Sorry I'm late." He stopped to shuck off his jacket at the edge of the living room. "There was this _idiot_ blocking the exit lane in the garage at Ralphs."

After greeting him with a hug, Sharon laughed, patted his cheek. "You are your father's son."

In years past, Nate might have recoiled at this. Now, he just shrugged, trading a look with Andy. "What can I say?"

Andy reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Good to see you, kid."

Nate returned the gesture. "You too, Dad. Merry Christmas." He held out a paper sack to his sister. "Here, Nic. I got mixed berries and strawberries, and two cans of Reddi-whip."

With that, and probably through a small miracle, each of their kids had contributed, in some way, to the Christmas Eve celebration that Sharon traditionally insisted on pulling together single-handed.

Nicole took the bag with a raised eyebrow. " _Two_ Reddi-whips?"

"Uh, _yeah_ ," Ricky says, from the couch. "Everyone knows that's the best part of any dessert."

Nate aimed a finger gun in his direction. "Exactly."

With everyone gathered, at last, dinner went off without a hitch. And, thanks to Nicole's skill at luring Sharon into deep conversation, so did the clean-up. In fact, it was Dean and Nate who led the charge, with the latter good-naturedly blocking Andy from the kitchen.

"We got it, Dad." Nate nodded toward the living room with a smirk. "Go be social."

Dean's voice came half-muffled from where he bent over, loading the dishwasher. "You host, we clean."

Even without an extra set of hands, the guys finished kitchen duty with plenty of time leftover to exchange presents and have dessert (with extra whipped cream) before loading up into a small convoy of cars and heading for Saint Joseph's. Sharon had wanted to arrive early, given the popularity of midnight mass and the size of their group. They met her goal, filing into a pew, taking nearly its entire length, with a half-hour to spare before the service.

Liam settled onto the pew between Sharon and Andy, wowing at the candles and the decorations and the organ music filling the space.

A few seats down, Dean said, "Hey, Liam. Why don't you come back over here?"

Sharon leaned forward, grinning. "He's fine, don't worry."

Andy figured that was that, a good excuse for the continuation of the distance that stretched between he and his wife all evening. But during the first reading Sharon reached up to twine her fingers with his, where his hand rested on the back of the bench behind the kid. It was a simple contact, something they'd done thousands of times, but it began to stitch together whatever had torn between them earlier in the day. When Liam eventually shuffled over to Sharon's other side, to sit with his new favorite Uncle Ricky, she scooted over to fill the gap he'd left.

By the time the congregation broke into Joy to the World at the end of the service, Sharon leaned heavy against Andy's side, her exhaustion plain to see. But her laugh came in full force when Liam threw his head back, yell-singing with equally charming lacks of self-consciousness and regard for the words.

"Joy to the world! The Lord has gum! Let earth repeat the King!"

Andy chuckled, reaching over to clap the kid on the shoulder. "Close enough, kiddo."

They let the pew clear out around them after mass ended, the kids and grandkids lured toward the school gym by the promise of cookies and hot cocoa. Ricky led the way with an undeniable rallying cry, carrying Liam on his back and practically dragging Rusty with them. "C'mon, crew. We gotta get some of Mrs. Plummer's churros before they're all gone."

"Churros? They have churros?" Nate turned to his sister. "We should've been coming to this church all along."

"No kidding," she replied, lightly pushing him toward the center aisle, towing Connor behind as they approached the river of parishoners headed for the doors. Once she reached the end of the pew, she turned back to Andy. "Dad?"

"We'll be there in a minute."

Sharon hadn't moved to leave, as of yet. Whether it was because of her fading energy or a need for reflection, he wasn't about to rush her. Her eyes fixed on the altar, the spot they'd been married only weeks before. When she finally spoke, her voice was a near-whisper, for only Andy to hear. "Do you know how many years I came to this service alone?"

A chill ran down his spine. He'd started coming with her two years ago, and Rusty tagged along last year. Before that, it was probably hit-or-miss, ever since the kids flew the coop. The image of it came into his mind uninvited. Sharon, kept apart from her family by choice or circumstance, sitting at the end of a pew instead of in the middle; Sharon, who he loved so much, celebrating her favorite holiday in solitude, surrounded by other people's families.

Andy tightened his hold around her waist. She looked at him, eyes shining, then to their family, shuffling along, together, in the crowd. She shook her head, her expression filled with wonder. A tear slid down her cheek. "And now, this. All of this."

He pressed a kiss to her temple. He knew what she meant. All of this, so perfect and delicate, so astounding. Their families, broken and taped back together and far-flung for too long, now molded into something better than ever, with Sharon at the center. They'd collected around her, into something more whole.

"I'm so blessed. I have so much to be thankful for." She brushed her fingers over his cheek as her voice wavered. "I'm fighting to keep it. I am."

"I know you are."

With a long inhale, she took in the altar once more. She let the breath wend out of her lungs, then she stood. "Okay. I'm ready to go."

The main aisle had cleared, allowing Andy to believe that they'd be able to stroll right outside and over to the reception. But the foyer was packed with reunited Christmas-Easter acquaintances and a line of parishoners waiting to chat with Father Stan.

"Oh jeez." Andy tried to keep the comment under his breath. Judging by Sharon's half-suppressed laugh, he failed.

"C'mon." She smiled, playful, pulling him toward a side door. "Let's take the long way."

It might not have been the best idea, given the day's events. But he was powerless to argue. Sharon led him down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, headed for the corner. Once they were on level ground, he held out his arm, which she accepted. They settled into a leisurely stroll.

With her face tilted toward the sky, taking in the few stars breaking through the city lights, she said, "Andy, I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have gotten so upset with you."

"You don't need to apologize."

"Well..." She paused, let her head hang to the side for a few seconds as her eyes made a slow roll upward. "I'm sure you figured out you were right."

He squeezed her fingers. "I'm not happy about that."

"I know." She sighed. "I'm just...angry at this situation. I'm so frustrated. I miss doing the things I used to do."

"I'm only trying to help, as much as I can."

A hint of her earlier annoyance seeps into her voice. "I understand. But I'm trying to keep living my life. In every sense. And, for me, that means doing things for the people I love. Especially this time of year."

"Which is great. I want you to live your life. I want you to be happy." He taps her wrist, trying to soften his next point. "But sometimes you push too hard."

"And sometimes you're overprotective," she shot back, grinning.

With a long nod, he silently conceded her point.

"But you're also persistent," she added, "and loyal." After steering them into an alley, she brought her head to his shoulder. "And I know we're going to figure this out."

Andy thought back on their earlier tension, the old fears that had crept into his mind. It'd been nothing, in the end, just a pothole in the road. It was a learning experience. "I think we can say we overcame the first challenge to our wedded bliss."

"Oh," Sharon snickered. "Bliss! We could use more of that."

They arrived at the side gate of Saint Joseph's High School. Festively dressed people milled around the courtyard, toting styrofoam cups and paper plates stacked with baked goods. An acoustic rendition of Silent Night floated through the gym's open doors. Ricky waved to them from his perch on the side of a fountain. Then, having caught their attention, he pointed to a spot over their heads.

"Uh, what?" Andy looked upward. By the time he spotted the bunch of greenery tied to the wrought iron arch above them, Sharon had already doubled over with laughter.

Ricky shouted to them. "That's what you get for coming through the troublemakers' entrance!"

Andy shook his head and muttered, "Did he do this?"

"I don't know," Sharon answered, wiping at her eyes while straightening up, "but I wouldn't put it past him."

Regardless of the source, she turned to Andy with a good-natured challenge set across her expression, her brow set just so. With no shortage of intent, she pulled him toward her. They got good use out of that mistletoe, their lips sliding together, once, twice...three luxurious times. He'd just started to skim the pads of his fingers down her neck when a wolf whistle cut through the air.

That broke the spell. Even full, properly married members of the Church probably shouldn't celebrate Christ's birthday by making out on the grounds of a Catholic school. But Andy held her close, even after breaking the kiss. "Merry Christmas, Sharon."

She let her eyes fall closed again, remnants of laughter playing across her lips. "Merry Christmas, Andy."


	3. Photographs and Memories

It wasn't much more than a week after Christmas when Sharon's doctor raised her position on the transplant list for a third time. This meant her surgery loomed, waiting only for the arrival of a matching heart. After New Year's, her absence from work became obvious, and she couldn't shake the idea that she was a distraction to the team.

She called Mason before so much as mentioning the idea to Andy. Not that he deserved any say in her choice, but he could have provided some perspective, as someone who'd been at work since she'd left. Everyone in the Murder Room missed her, of course, but they were getting along just fine. Everything would've continued to be fine until she got back.

Instead, he'd come home on a Thursday night to find her in tears on the couch, still clutching her phone. The sight of her sent fear careening through him, given the topic of her last, well-deserved, breakdown. She let him pull her against his chest, hold her until she calmed enough to explain.

Sharon had told the Chief that she would be retiring, effective the following Monday.

As she'd said at the time, she didn't realize how _final_ it would feel until she ended the call.

So, then, maybe she also hadn't realized how final it would feel to empty out her office, to remove almost every physical trace of herself from the PAB. Or maybe she did. She decided to do it on the Saturday in between, so that the removal of her belongings wouldn't (of course) _distract_ from work on Monday. Andy and Rusty tagged along to take care of the heavy lifting.

It wasn't an exaggeration to say that with Sharon's retirement, the LAPD was losing one of its most decorated officers. Name any good conduct or civic engagement medal, she earned it during the course of her career, along with near-countless awards from community groups. The plaques Andy layered into a box spoke to her immense success. So did the certificates, news clippings, commendations that Sharon scooped from her desk and into a box.

It was quick work, really. No more than an hour and eight boxes. That's all it took to pack up the six years of her tenure. With the boxes stacked and secured on a dolly, the walls bare and charmless around them, it felt too much like a blip in time.

Rusty grabbed the handles of the dolly and tipped it back onto its wheels. "I'll take these out to my car and get them home."

Sharon gave him a short grin. "Thank you, honey." Once he was through the office, she turned to the window. With a deep breath, she crossed her arms, arching her back just slightly as she took in the view.

How many times had Andy watched her do this, over the years? From his chair, he'd catch sight of her in this pose, every now and then. Sharon Raydor, surveying her domain. He'd watched first out of curiosity, eventually with hints of desire mixed in, and ultimately because it was adorable.

Now, given the circumstances, he felt like the voyeur he'd been all that time.

"Do you want a minute?" He asked.

Without looking his way, she said, "Alone?" Then, on a sigh, "No." She held her hand out, a silent invitation for him to join her in her reflection.

It was an offer he couldn't refuse. Coming to stand behind her, he grasped her outstretched hand, bringing his other arm around her. She relaxed against his chest. Outside, the sky pinkened toward sunset and cars flowed up and down the street. A stiff breeze rustled through the palm trees planted in the park across the way.

After a moment of watching the world go by, she said, "I've always loved the view in here."

"It _is_ excellent."

"Much better than my old office down on the third floor." In their reflection, he sees her lips quirk upward. "And my office in Parker Center couldn't even compare."

"It didn't even have windows, if I'm recalling my many visits there correctly."

This earned a small laugh. "You are." She went quiet again for a few long seconds. Her voice was thick when she said, "This isn't how I wanted it to end."

It broke his heart, her speaking this truth out loud. "I know."

She should've been allowed to make this choice in her own time, when she reached a point of satisfaction with her career. Maybe even after she'd received a better job offer. Then again, with Sharon, that point may have never come. He could relate to the feeling, that neverending drive, that stable voice saying _you're not done yet_.

But, with this, Andy was also feeling the pull of the door. Everything was about to change here and, given how well things had been going, it probably wasn't going to be for the better. If he could have done it without Sharon blaming herself, he would have submitted his retirement paperwork right along with hers.

It had a certain poetic ring, the two of them bowing out together. Sharon wouldn't have seen it that way, not when she'd been piling guilt onto her own back for weeks. And she was having a hard enough time dealing with her own retirement.

As the sky turned purple, she let out a long breath. "Okay." She squeezed his hand. "We should probably get going."

"Wait." He guided her to turn around, even as he kept her in his arms. A risky, but potentially worthwhile scenario had just popped into his head, an act that might make her last memory of this place a more positive one.

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

With one of those half-grins that she once admitted drove her _crazy_ , he asked, "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to kiss you in this office?"

Even though her eyes rolled skyward, a smile bloomed across her face. "How long?"

Andy hadn't planned to get into specifics, beyond 'a _really_ long time,' but he saw an opening for further distraction and took it. He let his voice drop low. "You really wanna know?"

As she cocked her head, her fingers brushed over his wedding band. "What's it going to hurt now?"

"Three, maybe four years."

As her eyes dropped from his, he would've given anything to be able to read her mind. She had to have figured out, somewhere along the line, that his infatuation — "crush" didn't even begin to cover it — with her began long before they spent an evening together at Serve. And she must have had a hunch that even after that, even after he'd spent considerable time enjoying her company in bed, his mind sometimes wandered in the vicinity of this room.

Even so, his admission sent color to her cheeks and a thoughtful hum to her lips. "That's a long time to wait." Sharon brought her palm to his cheek, her expression softening with the contact. "You better make it count."

"Yes ma'am."

Who would he have been, to disregard an order from his boss?

And on her turf, no less.

He couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face, even as he dipped his mouth to hers. Because how did this happen? Not only did he get the girl he'd daydreamt about, despite what had felt like improbable odds, but she'd agreed to be his wife. And she was clearly the _best_ , given she was indulging his half-juvenile, vaguely Freudian fantasy in the middle of her departure from the office.

He wanted to savor every millisecond of the moment, so he left the barest hint of space between their lips, until her frustrated exhale grazed his skin. At that, he closed the distance, brushing his lips to hers once, twice. He was content to keep it as light as she wanted. Which, as it turned out, was not light at all. She brought her hands to grip his shoulders, then one slid to the nape of his neck as she parted her lips under his. He buried his hands in her hair and her teeth grazed his bottom lip as he tasted her. It was incredible and dizzying and, honestly, beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

Well, anything that he imagined _while sitting at his desk_ , at least.

The soft moan that rose from her throat encouraged him all the more. He went chasing the sound, his mouth trailing a line along her jaw and down the side of her neck. He applied the smallest bit of suction to her pulse point and was rewarded with a gasp and a breathy, "Oh."

But then, within a second, Sharon's voice went full and urgent. "Andy."

A bolt of panic shot through him, a certainty that he'd pushed too far, that even this much contact was testing her heart. When he pulled back to ask what was wrong, she was flushed and half-breathless. But her eyes were fixed on the partially open door. "There's someone out there."

And this conventional type of disaster, this exact outcome, is why they'd never crossed the line before. Even on a Saturday. Even after everyone knew they were together. _Of course_.

Taking a steadying breath to smooth his pulse, Andy ran his hands over her hair, trying to ease the strands back into some kind of order. She wiped at his mouth, no doubt removing traces of her lipstick.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

The corner of her mouth quirked up as she stepped around him, taking his hand as she went. "Don't be."

When she pulled the door fully open, it was to find Provenza standing behind his chair, leaning against its back. His widened eyes and pursed lips said he'd peeked inside Sharon's office within the last few minutes. It was enough to make Andy glance at his shoes. _Busted._

Sharon cleared her throat, no doubt having the same thought. "Lieutenant, what are you—" she broke off when she saw the rest of the squad, dressed for the weekend, gathered near Mike's desk. Her hand tightened around Andy's. "What's—" She turned to him with a raised brow. "What's going on?"

He shrugged. "This is all Provenza."

And, because of that, it was hard to tell what, exactly, _was_ going on. His partner had called as he and Rusty gathered empty boxes from around the condo for the trip to PAB. Provenza hadn't had to work very hard to pull the truth of the situation out of Andy. But he hadn't said anything to hint that he would _show up_.

The man in question cleared his throat and straightened his back, holding his hands out at his sides. "With all due respect, Commander, you didn't think we could just let you walk out the door without saying goodbye, did you?"

Mike leaned forward from his perch on the desk. "Especially given your sense of occasion."

"Which we've all benefited from over the years," Amy added.

"I…" Sharon trailed off, flustered by the appearance of her team. "I think I was hoping to get," she gestured toward her office, " _this_ part out of the way first, then let you all know on Monday."

Julio grimaced. "How're we supposed to celebrate on a Monday morning, ma'am?"

The guy had a point. But, from where they stood, any levity was broken as soon as Provenza opened his mouth, "Oh, I think the celebration already _started_."

Andy fired a glare in his direction, but it was Sharon who shut him down with a sharp, "Yes, _thank you_ , Lieutenant."

"We were fine with waiting, really." Wes said, with an respectable lack of discomfort.

Buzz followed that train of thought, "Nothing we haven't seen before."

Andy winced. "Wait. What?" Either Buzz had a secret hobby, or they'd been less careful than they thought.

"We _were_ at your wedding reception, remember?"

And here they thought they'd been sneaky by stepping out into the darkened garden at the hall. Andy let his mouth fall into an o, considering the scene. "Right."

"Okay, well, now that we've covered _that_ …" Sharon brushed her hair away from her forehead, over her reddened cheeks. "I have news that I should really share with all of you myself."

No doubt wanting to save her the trouble of saying something the entire squad had already managed to put together, Provenza said, "Commander—"

He bit off the rest of his point when Sharon held her palm up in his direction. "Please, Lieutenant. I want to say it in my own words." He nodded, backing down.

With a reinforcing breath, she turned to the group. "I'm sure you've all figured out that I'm sick, and that the illness goes well beyond just the flu, or any lingering effects of it." She brought her hand to her chest. "The truth is, my heart is...failing."

Not even Andy had heard her sum up the situation with such frankness. The phrase, so short, but so heavy, punched yet another hole in his gut. From there, it traveled like a wave across the room. The confusion and worry of it hit her audience in the same second. Amy, in particular, looked like she was about to puke.

"So, I need a new one," Sharon continued. Somehow, she managed a grin. "New hearts don't come cheap, and they don't come easy. So, while I wait, I have to be...exceedingly gentle with the one I already have."

Her eyes traveled to the board, to the door to Electronics, to the super-cubicle, back to her team. "There is almost nowhere I'd rather be, than in this office, with all of you, contributing." Her voice broke. She clasped Andy's hand between both of hers. The contact helped to keep his own emotions in check as she said, "But, unfortunately, I've reached the point where being here, working, is a threat to my health. As hard as it is for me to admit, I'm no longer able to lead this division. And, as such," she cleared her throat, "I'm retiring from the LAPD."

A few whispered _whats_ floated across the room. They'd expected that she'd take a leave of absence. Maybe because that's what Andy had hinted at, before he learned her plan. But they hadn't expected this. That this would be the end.

"Working with all of you has been," she shook her head, blinking against tears, "it's been the absolute highlight of my career. I've never met such a dedicated, brilliant, and honorable group. Thank you," she bowed a little, "for allowing me to be a part of it. I…" she trailed off, flattening her mouth into a line for a moment.

She glanced at Andy before continuing. "I think I speak for both of us when I say that we consider each one of you to be part of our family. And family doesn't end. Not for anything. _Certainly_ not for this."

Andy contributed a lame, "Couldn't have said it better myself."

There was nothing more to add. This wasn't the end of Sharon being part of the squad, but it was the end of her being _here._ That's how it had to be.

In the ensuing quiet, Julio half-raised his hand and asked, with full gravity, "Does that mean we're still gonna have the Rams playoff party at your place?"

Leave it to Julio to ask the important questions. On a watery laugh, Sharon said, "Of course!"

"I already picked out a spot on the counter for your pulled pork, Julio," Andy pointed at him, "so don't think you're getting out of it that easily."

"Well, ma'am," Amy said, lifting a large, flat object, wrapped in blue paper, from under Mike's desk. "Before we move onto the _next_ party, I should give you this."

The photo had been Amy's idea. Both the taking and the framing. They'd all been in uniform for Sharon's promotion ceremony with Pope, where Rusty and Andy got to pin her new stars and badge to her shirt. Afterward, once Pope finished his glad-handing and awkward schmoozing, Amy corralled them together and handed her phone to Rusty.

"I have to get a shot of us looking all official in the Chief's office," she'd said with a shrug.

Much later, during Sharon's second hospital stint, Amy brought a printout of the photo, along with an oversize mat and a sleek hardwood frame, to the Murder Room. "I thought we could all sign it, for the Commander, to let her know we're thinking about her." She looked at Andy. "What do you think, Lieutenant?"

He'd said then that she'd love it. Watching her unwrap it, under these circumstances, he was even more certain. Once Sharon pulled a strip of the paper off, revealing part of the image and bits of the scrawled messages underneath, she paused. "Oh."

With her fingers hovering at her collarbones for a moment, she took a shaky breath, then continued ripping. By the time she finished, tears shone in her eyes. She steepled her fingers at her mouth, taking a minute to take in each word, humming as she went.

 _You are, by far, the most worthy commander I've ever known. LMP_

 _Thanks for making us better, Commander. - J. Sanchez_

 _Meritorious. Praiseworthy. Estimable. Honorable. Admirable. I'd say you're all of the above! Mike Tao_

 _Thank you for seeing potential in me and for being a patient teacher when I needed it. You're the greatest mentor a lady could ask for! - Amy_

 _Sharon - Pinning stars on your collar was my proudest moment wearing this uniform. You prove every day how much you deserve them. All my love, A_

 _Thanks for welcoming me into this amazing team. So happy to be a part of it. Wes._

 _Starting my 2nd LAPD career, I'm so fortunate to have your guidance and help. You're truly an inspiration. - Buzz_

"Oh my goodness," she sighed, shaky. Andy rubbed circles on her back as he traded a look with Amy. _Told you so._

"I—" Sharon lifted her shoulders to her ears and let them fall again. Her voice trembled when she tried again. "I don't know what to say. This is...just…"

Amy tipped forward onto her toes, rightfully happy with the reaction to her gift. "I think you already said it."

While Sharon gathered herself, Provenza nodded at Wes, who disappeared around the corner. He came back hefting a checkerboard-sized bakery box. "Cake, anyone?"

He laid it on the Cursed Desk and flipped the lid open to reveal a chocolate-frosted layer cake, decorated with purple and white roses and a scripted _Best Wishes_.

"It's strawberry filled," Julio said, leaning forward.

"Oh my God," Sharon chuckled, wiping at her eyes again. "You're all too much, really."

Mike nudged her shoulder. "And how many cakes have you wheeled into this office, over the years?"

"It was supposed to be a 'good luck with your treatment' cake." Provenza gestured toward the icing. "Now it's that, and a 'good luck with _everything'_ cake." He handed her a spatula. "Pick your slice, Commander. Any one you want."

—

Captain Neil Williams must pick up on this bond, this devotion to a leader he would never be, right away. He must sense it in the seven pairs of eyes that track him as he enters Sharon's office and starts unpacking his belongings. (The way his wood carved nameplate thuds onto the desktop might as well be a kick to Andy's gut.)

Williams maybe catches onto it with the overly diplomatic way Mason introduces him, or the silent conversations exchanged around the room as it happens. But he definitely notices it when they jump into their new case the way Sharon would have directed them to, with Provenza collecting Amy, Wes and Buzz to head with him to the scene, leaving Andy, Mike, and Julio to cover the victims at the hospital and morgue.

As they set into motion, Williams strides into the middle of the office and bellows, "Hold the fuck up!" His eyes flit around the room, loaded with steel. "I don't think I ordered anyone to go anywhere," he levels a cold stare at Provenza, "as much as I _appreciate_ your suggestions."

"Ah, Captain, I was just on my way in to brief you." Provenza keeps his tone even, in contrast to Williams.

"Oh, well," the Captain's voice carries a hint of a taunt. "That won't be necessary, Lieutenant Provenza." He flicks his hand toward Amy. "Detective Sykes, I want you at the hospital, questioning that witness. Uhhh," as he scans the group, Williams finds Andy. He smirks. "Oh, right. Flynn. Get down to the crime scene, take—"

"Sir," Provenza's voice cuts across the word, "I usually head up the scene, which leaves the CO—"

"And I said. I. Don't. Care." Williams looks around the room again. "Is that clear? I don't give a shit about how you used to do things." He looks straight at Andy, and now the smirking and prodding feels less like a coincidence. "This is my house now."

He lets the words hang, waiting for something.

When he doesn't get it, he says, "Is this not my house, Lieutenant Flynn?"

Andy shifts his jaw. _What the hell is this asshole trying to prove?_ What is he supposed to do, kiss the guy's ring? He hasn't been willing to do that thus far, over the wide span of his career, and he sure isn't gonna start now.

His eyes find the office door, just visible over Williams' shoulder, and as memory cuts at him, he knows what to say. "Well, sir," he offers the Captain a short nod, "your name _is_ on the door."

Williams' mouth curls into a sneer. "Yes. It is." He must remember that there are other people in the room, because he goes back to barking out orders. "Flynn, Tao, Sanchez, Nolan, Watson, crime scene. Sykes, hospital. Provenza, I'll be at the morgue in twenty." He claps his meaty hands together at his waist. "Go!"

They set into faux-motion, gathering enough random crap off their desks to convince Williams they're leaving. As soon as his back is turned, though, all eyes point to Provenza.

With his voice low and an eye on the back office, he says, "Sykes, go to the scene. Tao, head things up there. Flynn, go to the hospital. Everyone else, do what the Captain said."

For a second, they remain still, as if measuring the danger of disregarding Williams' orders. It's Sykes, of all people, who breaks it with a nod. "Yes, sir."

With that, they head out for real. Andy hangs back, waits for the Murder Room to empty around him before stepping to Provenza's desk. "Listen, I don't want you to—"

He doesn't look up from where he's trying to glare a hole in the paperwork on his desk. "Flynn, go to the hospital."

"He's not gonna stay blind to this for long."

"I'll deal with it when it happens," he grits. "Just. Go."


	4. A Place Where We Only Say Goodbye

True to form, once she'd agreed to the transplant, Sharon honored Andy's second request, too. When she had her second consultation with the cardiologist, she haltingly brought up the feelings she'd been wrestling with, sketching around the guilt and shame that'd chased her since her last hospitalization. The doctor didn't flinch. It was common, he said, for his patients to have these kinds of reactions. He handed her a card for a therapist who specializes in counseling transplant patients.

Following Sharon's first meeting with her, the therapist suggested she attend a weekly group session held at Cedars-Sinai. Sharon kicked the idea around for the better part of a week, cycling through excuses that ranged from her reserved nature to the distance between home and the medical center. The parking was expensive. She'd only _just_ been put on the transplant list. Brunch traffic would be in full swing. She didn't know what to expect.

By the time the sun rose into a bright winter Saturday morning, though, she hadn't ruled it out. The 10 AM session remained penciled into her planner. So Andy threw out half-convincing reasons for him to visit WeHo for a few hours, until she caved and agreed to let him drive her.

Having decided, at last, that she was gonna go, she'd put on a light purple dress and an ivory cardigan, paired with the tall black boots he'd had strong feelings about for years. As he drank coffee, waiting for Sharon in the courtyard after her meeting, Andy considered that the outfit maybe left her overdressed for the group. Most everyone else flowing out the door around her sported jeans as they made their way toward the parking lot. But the dress made her easy to spot.

Plus, Andy found comfort in seeing her as poised and put-together as ever. Her wistful stares toward their closet every morning told him she missed her curated business wardrobe. He missed it a little bit, too. Laid up at home, she didn't have much use for high heels, sharp pencil skirts, and flowy blouses. Her selection of yoga pants and leggings had their own charms, sure, but they couldn't beat the simple tautness of a vivid dress and a sleek blazer.

Sharon stood in deep conversation with a petite blonde woman for several minutes after they stepped into the courtyard. Whatever they discussed left her studying the concrete at her feet for a moment after the blonde clasped her hand and walked away. But then she straightened, lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she scanned her surroundings.

Andy twisted his fingers into a wave. Even from afar, he couldn't miss the familiar curve of her lips when he caught her eye. She strolled toward him, seeming to pull in the breeze and light as she went.

Once she closed within talking distance, she asked, "Have you been waiting long?"

"Nope." He handed a second cup over and kept his arm lifted to make room as she settled onto the bench at his side. "How'd it go?"

She hummed into her coffee, taking some time to gather her thoughts. "I—" she paused, letting her lips curl upward just slightly. "I'm not the only one who feels this way."

"I can imagine."

"Everyone in there. _Everyone_ is battling some form of guilt. Or multiple forms of guilt." With a shake of her head, she added, "But just being in the same space, sharing those struggles with people who understand…" She took a deep breath, letting it flow out of her in a sigh. "It was _so_ freeing."

He nudged her shoulder with his. "I could've told you that."

After all, his own freedom had been bought with his decision to spend an hour (or several hours) each week circled up with other alcoholics in a church rec hall. Nothing is as comforting as hearing your darkest thoughts oozing from someone else's mouth. No one understands your hell quite like other people trudging through it.

"I know, darling." She shrugged, rolled her eyes. "I probably wouldn't have listened, anyway."

"You? Stubborn?" He faked a frown. " _Never_."

This earned him a laugh. "I know, I know." She drew another sip of coffee, growing serious with it. "One of the young women in the group is a nun, actually."

"No kidding? Sounds like someone you should make friends with."

"I think maybe I already did." She angled her head and let her gaze float up to the trees shading the campus. "She reframed the situation in an interesting way."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was a good reminder that God has His own plans."

He leaned forward to catch her attention, then tapped his wedding ring. "He certainly does."

With a grip of his arm, her eyes widened. "That's what I told Catherine!" She laughed, indulgent. "If someone had asked me ten years ago to sit down and write a vision of my future…well, I would never have been able to come up with _this_." She brought her palm to his cheek. "I wouldn't have set my sights this high."

Despite the illness that brought her to the group to begin with, she was still thinking in terms of _this high_. He sometimes had to remind himself that she was just as awed by their relationship, their marriage, as he was. That they'd managed to drop their respective headstrong natures, at the same time, to allow the other to really see them? That in itself was a small miracle, one he found himself grateful for every day.

"So what I'm hearing," he couldn't help but gloat, a little, "is that you got a bit of perspective out of this trip."

Sharon hummed in agreement, even as her brow creased. "But, even so," she said, rising off the bench and coaxing Andy up with her, "it's unfortunate that they have to meet in a _hospital_."

He wanted to groan at the prospect of her excuses rearing their heads again. Instead, he kept his voice level when he asked, "It was worth it though, right?"

"I think so." She turned to him with a hint of irresistible mischief sparkling in her eyes. "But I'd bump that up to 'definitely' if you take me to lunch at Marvin."

"I'll take that deal."

—

Andy's opinion of hospitals has dropped from "unpleasant necessity" to "hellhole" in the span of weeks.

He's been in and out (mostly in, it seems) of them for what feels like more days than not over the past two months. He's half-filled the field notebook in his suit pocket with scribbled, probably misspelled doctor speak. He's carried armloads of bouquets into cold rooms and arranged them to cover as much stark whiteness as possible. After a few false starts, he's mastered the art of charming nurses in exchange for extra minutes of visiting time. He's sworn off ever trying to use his leather jacket as a pillow again. Thanks to a bit of his professional expertise, he's smuggled Shake Shack chicken sandwiches and vanilla-berry concretes to substitute for mushy dietitian food. He's napped while curled onto the edge of a hospital bed, under the eye of medical staff not tasked with caring for him.

None of it could change the fact that each time he walked through a set of swooshing automatic doors and into an antiseptic-scented, fluorescent-lit, too-bright space, he'd had to brace against the possibility that he could walk back out having been forever separated from his wife.

With that recent history, even knowing that Sharon is home, now — safe and intact and sporting a fresh heart — isn't enough to ease the tightness in Andy's lungs as he sits in yet another poorly padded chair in yet another dingy waiting room. At this point, he doesn't even bother with the vending machine coffee. He cracks open a Canada Dry, hoping it'll wash away the queasy waves in his stomach. The TV mounted in the corner drones about unfamiliar crises that have been unfolding for weeks beyond his attention. White-soled shoes squeak down the linoleum floor of the hallway outside. The periodic warble of the PA system barely registers on his ears anymore.

There's one other person in the room, a middle-aged guy with tan skin and jet black hair. His clothes are rumpled in a recognizable way, the fashion of someone who's been sparing the fewest of scattered seconds for domestic chores. He alternates between leaning forward — elbows on knees and his fingers peaked together at his mouth — and resting back with his head lolling against the wall. Through it all, he's silent, save for the occasional breath that rushes from his mouth like he has to remember to exhale. His gaze remains watery and unfocused, heavy with exhaustion.

Andy wants to say something to him, muster some kind of encouragement. It seems like the right thing to do, on the surface, given that the guy's dealing with the kind of hard time he's too familiar with. But memory holds him back. When he'd been sitting in a similar spot, even surrounded by friends, the only thing he'd wanted to hear was that his nightmare was over, that he could finally let go of the worst-case-scenarios that'd been stalking him.

Still, when the guy leans forward again, Andy follows suit. "Can I get you anything, man?"

It takes a few seconds and a couple of long blinks for him to focus. His brows knit together. "Sorry, what?"

"You need anything?" Andy lifts his now-empty can. "Something to drink? A snack?"

He glances at the opposite wall, no doubt trying to remember the last time he ate. "Uh," he rubs his palms along his cheeks, shakes his head. "Nah, man. I'm good."

"Okay." He is nowhere near good, but Andy lets it lie.

In the end, his trip to the hospital is for nothing, anyway. A grim-faced doctor comes to the doorway of the waiting room, causing Andy's companion to go rigid for several seconds. He slumps back onto his elbows when she crooks a finger toward Andy and says, "Lieutenant?"

A brain bleed stole away their potential witness before she so much as opened her eyes. Liza Jefferson, a seventeen-year-old kid who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, snuffed out like a candle. The doctors hadn't realized the severity of her injuries until it was too late. And so it goes.

The news at least gets Andy out of hospital duty. As he steps outside, into the midday sun, he rolls tension from his shoulders and wills the breeze to blow the institutional scent out of his suit. He shoots a text to Provenza with the news and fights the urge to call Sharon.

 _No hovering_ , he reminds himself. _Not even from a distance_.

He's halfway back to PAB when his phone vibrates with a response from Provenza. _Not good. Regrouping at El Milagro. Will save you a seat._

The lunch rush has mostly passed by the time Andy finds his squadmates around a long table in the dim back room of their standard Mexican haunt. Their usual waitress, Isa, doesn't even wait for him to sit down before checking his order. "Ah, there's our _teniente numero tres_. Chicken fajitas, hold the tortillas, extra guacamole, and a water?"

"You got it," he says, draping his jacket on the back of an empty chair.

She smiles as she slaps her notepad against her palm. "What, no _comandante_ , again?"

"Not today, no."

"Ah, so you still want the hot salsa?"

"Yeah, please." Isa makes a note and heads off toward the kitchen. Once she's out of earshot, Andy says, "We might come here too much, guys."

Julio doesn't look up from his phone. "Only asada worth eating within two miles of the office."

"And it doesn't hurt that they let us use their party room whenever we show up." Provenza nods at him, brows furrowed. "Long morning?"

"Yeah, I just can't get enough of those hospital waiting rooms, you know." When his frown deepens in response, Andy waves him off. "It's fine. I'm more upset about not getting Liza's side of the story."

Mike pulls a salsa bowl closer and unwraps his napkin. "If it makes you feel any better, we didn't get much of anything out of Adam Somerset, either."

"Our victim," Buzz grimaces, "was a hoarder."

"Which would have been fine," Mike gestures with a tortilla chip, "except he was killed in the front doorway of his house, and all the spatter went _in_."

"Also, we couldn't all fit into said house at the same time," Amy adds.

"Oh," Wes forces a smile as he taps the table, "and there were animals in there, too."

Andy can't help but laugh. Seems like he'd drawn a long straw, in the end. "So what I'm hearing is...rabies shots for everyone."

Isa arrives with the first plates, delivering them with long-memorized ease. From there, they trade facts between mouthfuls of food. Mike gives a full review of the scene, complete with a over-detailed list of the evidence SID either had collected or was working on collecting. Julio and Amy share the few items of interest they'd collected on their neighbor interviews. Wes and Buzz mostly talk about the sorry state of Somerset's house.

"I mean, that alone could be motive, right?" Wes balls up the foil his tortillas were wrapped in, tosses it from hand to hand. "Say you live next door. Maybe you wanna sell your house sometime soon. Knowing that you lived next to _that_ , it could be a big hit to your property value."

"That's a good point." Mike grins, wags his finger at Wes. "We're gonna make an investigator out of you yet."

"Meanwhile, at the morgue, Williams," Provenza seethes, "asked zero questions during the prelim. As in, not even _one_." At the set of shaking heads around the table, he adds, "And then he told Morales to ' _take his time_ ' with the autopsy."

Andy talks around his straw. "Does anyone else think there's something seriously wrong with this guy?"

Julio frowns as he uses the end of a tortilla to capture a few stray chunks of meat off his plate. "Something other than him being the king of hardasses?"

"Yeah, I think it's more than that."

While he was stuck at the hospital, he'd spent some time considering their new captain's approach. The truth is, Williams reminds Andy of no one more than himself, back when he used to sink into glass after glass of bourbon after every shift. He'd been filled with rage back then, an inferno that jumped out of him to consume his marriage, his relationship with his kids, most of his friendships. It nearly got his badge, too. The destruction it caused only made it stronger; the regret he felt only fueled the self-hatred at the center of it all. None of it made him a good cop.

But Andy was a grade one detective at the time, chasing small-time crack dealers through Rampart. And if he hadn't contained his bullshit, he never would've made it past that point. Getting sober was a big part of it, sure, but even that required that he learn to stop lashing out, to stop assuming the worst in people and attacking them for those assumptions. He still isn't perfect on that front, but at least he can mostly limit the habit to suspects and assholes.

As for the self-hatred...that's an ongoing project.

Regardless, Williams is a _captain_ acting like this. He's supposed to be a grown-up. And someone in the chain of command thought it'd be a good idea to put him at the controls of their well-oiled machine.

As if reading Andy's mind, Mike asks, "Does anyone even know where he came from?"

"I dunno," Wes says, "but I heard from some of the Intel guys that Mason did _not_ want him here."

"Of course he didn't," Amy mutters toward her last enchilada.

The table goes quiet, waiting for the rest of her point. Provenza snaps his fingers. "Spill it, Sykes."

She rests her fork onto her plate and wipes her mouth, keeping her eyes on the table. "Captain Williams transferred from Harbor Division. He...didn't have a good reputation with his officers."

"Gee, I never would've guessed," Julio says.

Her voice goes sharp. "He isn't just a jerk, Julio. He's a _creep_."

Mike lifts his chin. "What do you mean, Amy?"

She sighs. "Williams was a patrol captain down there. Third watch. He's not even a detective. And my friends who work in Harbor…" She swallows hard, as if more than words are crawling up her throat. "They say he takes a special interest in humiliating women under his command."

All movement around the table seems to freeze. The context behind the Captain's earlier line, _Is this not my house_? _,_ becomes clear. It has to just burn away at that asshole, knowing that every single person in the Murder Room has already measured him against a woman and found him to be _sorely_ lacking. Andy, as that woman's husband, must be an irresistible target for his resentment.

Provenza's voice cuts through the silence. "Well, why the hell would they have sent him to _us_ , then?"

"Because nothing's ever been proven against him," Amy's eyes meet Andy's and he can't miss the fury there, "and because someone thought we could handle ourselves. That the division runs so smoothly because it doesn't really _need_ a leader."

"Do you have any idea who that _someone_ is, Amy?"

She just gets her mouth open before Provenza butts in. "You don't need to know that, Flynn."

"Oh, I think I do."

"No." He points to Andy, then Amy. "No. We don't need to go there."

"Where the hell are we gonna go, then?" He can't possibly believe they'll just drop this.

" _I_ will talk to Mason about it." His finger trails all the way around the table as he says, "We still have a job to do. And that means tolerating Williams as long as he sits in that office." He straightens and digs out his wallet, signalling the end of the conversation and their lunch. "Like so many other things in our job, we don't have to like it. We just have to do it."

They settle the bill in near-silence and make their separate ways back to the Murder Room. Amy's revelation hangs like smog, even as they set up the board and record the facts of the case. It's hard to tell what they can expect once they get a suspect, how Williams will react, whether he'll push to get a deal from the DA or cast it out to a trial. Right now, it's hard to imagine getting that far.

A bellow echoes from the back office. "Flynn!"

Andy's eyes roll back into his head at the prospect of facing a grilling from Williams. Provenza leans toward him and says, "Suck it up."

He answers with a glare and, "I'd rather not," as he stands.

Bravado or no, he fills with dread as he approaches the door. His leaden feet hesitate by his old desk. But once he steps inside, the room feels different. There's no warmth in it, no personality. It relieves him, oddly enough, to not feel her in here, with Williams, who barely looks up from his computer when Andy parks himself in front of his desk. "Sir?"

"I heard Provenza sent you to the hospital this morning, against my orders."

"I guess so, Captain."

Andy braces for the riot act, but Williams only cocks his head. "And?"

"And Liza Jefferson died in the trauma unit."

"That sucks." His mouth puffs out with a sigh. "We really needed her statement."

Andy fixes his eyes on the window behind the desk, deflecting the disgust he wants to direct at Williams. "Yeah, that and she's _dead_ , at the age of seventeen."

"Sure, right. Very sad." His shortness makes clear that he doesn't find it sad in the least. "Go out and find her mother, ask if there's any reason she would've been at Somerset's," he mocks a gag, "gross house."

Andy nearly takes the order, if only to get away from Williams and his offensive lack of sympathy for their victims. He could walk out the door right now and stay out for the rest of the day, conduct some interviews, maybe check out the scene. His CO would be none the wiser.

But the wrongness of it twists at him.

Deep down, Andy knows Sharon will be upset if she figures out that he's in the field.

No, actually, she'll be _pissed_. And, given their social circle, there's a near-certain chance that she _will_ find out. Hell, Provenza would probably call her as soon as he stepped foot outside the office.

It isn't like it was her decision, like she chained him in the office to be controlling or to deny him. There were, and still are, he supposes, legitimate concerns about his health. With Sharon still recovering from her transplant, the last thing he'd want to do is get himself injured, while going against orders, and end up as another burden for her to carry.

With that in mind, he clears his throat. "Actually, I'm not cleared to be out in the field."

Williams blinks up at him. "What do you mean? According to who?"

"According to my doctor."

He leans back into the chair and makes a show out of crossing his stubby arms. "Your doctor," he grits. "How long, exactly, have you been working without full medical clearance?"

Andy's first instinct is to lie. After all, it's too clear, now that Sharon no longer sits in this office, that he's the lame horse on the squad. Drawing attention to his situation is as good as asking to be put out of his misery. And even if Williams is an asshole deviant, Andy isn't sure he's ready to be sent off to the glue factory.

But the Captain is bound to find out eventually, whether he gets the information from paperwork or from the loose lips of other mouths in the office. He'll hear about it.

"It's been about a year." Andy skips a mention of his second-most recent stint on the disabled list, the one that actually ended.

"A year." Williams jaw shifts as he shakes his head. His flinty glare fixes on a point beyond the blinds, and he forces a chuff of annoyed laughter. "What good is a detective who can't leave the office?"

"Well…" He could kick himself for not anticipating the question, for not having an answer prepared. "I usually help with—"

"Lieutenant, do you know how many officers in the LAPD would spit-shine my shoes for an opportunity to work in this division?"

Amy's story from earlier echoes through his words. The thought of what Williams might try to exchange for those opportunities is enough to turn Andy's stomach. He can't help the way his eyes narrow as he says, "No, Captain. I have no idea."

"I doubt that very much."

That Williams didn't take the opening to brag about the number of detectives willing to line up and kiss his ass is enough to make Andy lift a brow. "Okay…"

"Listen. You all got comfortable here. I get that. It's a cushy job." He gestures toward Andy's left hand. "Some of you got more comfortable than others."

Andy shoves his hands in his pockets, away from the Captain's judging glare. "And?"

"And, sometimes comfort isn't what we need. Sometimes it isn't what the people of Los Angeles need, either." Williams' eyes drop to his computer. He goes back to typing. "I guess you need to get someone else to pick up your slack, huh?"

With that, Andy is dismissed. He tries to ignore the way his heart pounds. "Yes sir."

Back out in the bullpen, five sets of carefully diverted eyes, plus Julio's steely stare, tell him that they caught onto the nature of the conversation. Andy directs a small nod toward Julio, _let it go_ , then says, "Hey, Amy, can you handle this interview with Mrs. Jefferson? I'll take over on the warrant for you."

She lets out a little sigh. He hopes it's one of relief. "Sure thing, Lieutenant." She carries a pile of paperwork over to his desk. "I can never get these Title III requests right on the first try, anyway."

It might just be flattery, an attempt to make him feel useful after Williams' little rant. But it does the trick. Andy has his skills, after all.

"Ah, Nolan," Provenza says, "why don't you go along?" He directs a wide-eyed nod at the young detective. "Your non-hostile questioning technique still needs some work."

"Yes, sir." Wes points at Amy. "I'll drive."

"Not a chance."

"Oh, c'mon. Last time you drove, I ended up with coffee all over my pants…"

They head around the corner and out of the office, bickering about who's gonna take the keys. Once Andy settles back into his chair, Julio spins around. He's still wearing that fighting look.

"What?"

It's Mike who answers, quietly and without moving his eyes off his monitor. "Should we be concerned?"

"No." It isn't clear that _they_ have anything to worry about. "Same as ever," Andy gestures toward Williams, "put some brass in a big, fancy office and they suddenly think they're hot shit."

Provenza chuckles. "And would you have said that about the _last_ occupant of that big, fancy office?"

Andy walked right into that one. "Well," he starts. Mike snickers in his pause. "Hey, give me some credit here."

"We're waiting on your answer, sir." Julio says this with an extra dash of politeness.

"Fine. I'd say…" It's clear that the guys think Andy felt a similar animosity toward Sharon, in the beginning. He hadn't.

Sure, she had a history of annoying them during investigations and being just a little — or a lot — too perfect. And she had a different style than they'd been used to working with. But she hadn't taken over the division with her ego in mind. That's one of the reasons he'd warmed to her so quickly. She came to do good work. And she did.

"I would've said that Sharon already _knew_ she was hot shit. Even before she got the office."

"God…" Provenza rolls his eyes. "The Commander puts a ring on your finger and now it's all revisionist history."

"C'mon—"

Before he can argue, Mike says, "No, I think Andy has a point." He slides his hand in mid-air. "With Sharon, it was never about the prestige."

"Exactly," Andy says.

"Which is how it should be." Julio spins back around, staring at the office. "I don't think we got it, this time."

"No," Provenza sighs. "I don't think we did."


	5. Bound to the Tracks of the Train

In the middle of January, a large, official-looking envelope addressed to Sharon came in the mail. Andy nodded toward it as she sliced its top open, thinking that its arrival might signal the end of one of her ongoing concerns.

"That your pension paperwork?"

"No, it's a certified copy of our marriage license."

"Oh….kay."

She emptied the envelope onto the coffee table. "You know, one of the perks of retirement is no longer having to jump through hoops with HR."

"Sure," he said, not following her train of thought.

"There's also exactly _one_ upside of putting off our trip to Ireland: I don't need my passport right away." Her eyes sparkled. "So I can apply for a new one." She twirled her finger as she said, "And if I'm updating _that_ , I should really go ahead and get a new driver's license, too, which means getting a new Social Security card."

"Ah," he grinned, getting her point. "So what you're saying is, you're going official."

"I am." She quirked a brow, holding up the certificate and a form, filled out in her impeccable block print. "How do you feel about a trip to the Social Security office?"

"I'm up for it, if you are."

Andy had hoped that she might consider changing her name when they got married. At the same time, he knew it was a possessive desire, one he felt guilty for even having. Sharon's steadfast independence has always been as much a feature of hers as her bright green eyes, or her polished sense of style. He didn't want to suggest that she give up even its appearance just to satisfy his caveman brain. She spent her entire career as a Raydor. She'd built her reputation and her family on the name. It was too much to ask that she upend it all now.

So he'd left it alone, content to know he had her, however she wanted to be known to the world.

But, as it so often happened, she'd surprised him. A few weeks before the wedding, they took a long lunch to the clerk's office to turn in their marriage license application. While Andy worked with the clerk to organize and verify their pile of documents, Sharon filled out most of the form itself.

After a few minutes, she slid it across the desk for him to finish and sign. At that moment, though, he was distracted by an argument with the clerk. "No, we triple checked the list." Even better, _Sharon_ had triple-checked the list. So he was able to say, with complete certainty, "Everything we need is here."

"I'm not seeing your proof of divorce, sir."

"Here," Sharon picked up the folder holding their papers. Her voice was surprisingly bright, given the situation and their dwindling break time. "I'll find it, Andy." She tapped the half-completed form. "Go ahead and finish this."

After printing his name in the blank section and signing at the X, he gave the rest of it a scan, wanting to avoid any repeat visits to the cranky clerk. Everything was correct and as expected — Sharon's information under Person 1, his own under Person 2 — until he got to the middle of the page. Under "Person 1, New Last Name," Sharon had printed, "Raydor Flynn". His eyes dropped to the bottom of the form. He'd seen the familiar flowy script without _reading_ , her signature with a new addition. _Sharon Raydor Flynn_.

In his surprise, he could only manage one reaction. He looked over at her, eyes wide and mouth dropped open, to find her watching him with a radiant smile. Once he regained enough sense to talk, he said, "You sure about this?"

"What?" She teased, even as her eyes shined. "You're embarrassed to be associated with me?"

"Never." He leaned over to kiss her, ignoring the clerk's huff of impatience from across the desk. "The opposite."

What's the opposite of embarrassment? Wonder? Gratitude? Elation? He felt all of them, in that moment, like the other half of the rush from her accepting his proposal, all those months before.

Sharon laughed, patting his cheek. "I've already been referred to as 'Mrs. Flynn' so many times over the past few years." She lifted her shoulder. "What can I say? It grew on me."

"Okay, that's _great_ ," the clerk broke their reverie, without a hint of remorse. "But you're not legally gonna be Mrs. anything unless I get that divorce certificate."

Needless to say, the paperwork _had been_ in place, they _did_ get married, and, according to the State of California, she was legally Sharon Raydor Flynn. And now she was prepared to make it official with everyone else.

"If we get going now, we might miss the lunch lag," she said, pulling on her jacket.

Andy palmed his keys. "And then maybe we can grab some lunch ourselves?"

"Sure, as long as we make it quick enough to get to the DMV afterward."

After all, once Sharon's made up her mind, she's all in.

—

With two of their three wiretap applications finished, Andy has mostly bounced back to his usual level of professional confidence by the time 1500 rolls around.

"Piece of cake," he tells Provenza. "I'll be across the street getting these signed by the end of the day."

"Not too shabby, Flynn."

He can't resist crooking a thumb toward Williams. "I wonder if Captain Wonderful back there even knows what a pain in the ass these are."

Provenza shrugs. "Doesn't matter. If it were up—"

He bites off the rest of his sentence as his eyes fix on the opposite side of the office. Before Andy can swivel to follow the look, Williams' voice booms through the office.

"Get a fire under those asses. We got a situation!"

Provenza sends a silent order of agreement to the others with a stern nod. Without stopping to think about their earlier conversation, focused only on the potential threat, Andy asks, "What kind of situation?"

Williams doesn't break stride as he heads out the door. "The kind that someone chained to his desk doesn't need to worry about."

Mike spins around, backing after the Captain. "I'll let you know what we find," he says, before turning forward and following Provenza out.

This is, by far, the worst part of being trapped in the office. Andy can accept the lack of excitement. Foot pursuits and shootouts are a young man's game, and he'd much rather get home at the end of the night than risk going through either. Like when he moved from patrol to a detective position, the issue isn't as much what Andy himself is missing out on. It's the thought of what his friends might be getting into, the shit he's no longer able to help with.

And it's almost always some shit when the CO rushes off to a scene. As Andy gathers the warrant paperwork for his trip to the courthouse, he can't get over the sinking feeling in his gut, that something awful had happened and that the squad will be short-handed in its response without him there.

He's waiting for the judge when his phone beeps with an incoming text message. A glance at the screen says it's from Mike. _Amy and Wes ran into some trouble at the Jeffersons' building. Ended up in a fight, Wes will need some stitches. Not the end of the world. We'll be back shortly._

The message occupies half of Andy's attention as he fields operational questions from Judge Richwood. _A fight_. He hopes to God that Wes didn't throw the first punch. The guy had spent a few too many years under deep cover, forced to cozy up with assholes who'd jump strangers based on appearance alone. It's hard to tell how many of their habits had unconsciously rubbed off on him. Mike's been saying all along that it's something worth keeping an eye on.

"Anything else, Lieutenant?" The judge watches Andy with a lifted brow, no doubt having said something that should have sent him on his way.

"Uh, no." He shakes off thoughts about the fight. "Sorry, your honor, it's been a long one."

"I bet." The judge lifts his chin. "I have to admit, I was surprised to see you today."

Andy offers him a tight smile. "First day back."

"Ah, that's never easy. How's Sharon?"

"She's doing really well. The new heart seems to be cranking along, just like the doctors expected." He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his head. "I think her biggest problem at this point is cabin fever."

"Knowing her, I can only imagine." The judge's mouth lifts into a grin. "Please give her my best."

Andy nods, gathering the signed warrants. "I will, thanks."

By the time he gets back to PAB and steps off the elevator on the ninth floor, it's clear that the rest of the squad has gotten back from the Jeffersons'. Williams' booming voice echoes from the door to the Murder Room, even as it remains closed to the hallway. Once Andy pulls it open, the Captain's voice sharpens into words. "I don't think I've _ever_ seen such a botched response to a simple interview."

Provenza's voice seems icy in comparison. "Captain, it isn't as if Sykes and Nolan went in there looking for a fight—"

"No, but they sure as hell let it turn into a brawl." As he rounds the corner into the office, Andy finds Williams glowering at Amy, hands on hips and feet set into a wide stance. Amy's posture makes it clear that she's seen worse. Still, Williams keeps the pressure on her. "Detective, you fucked up, and I'm not interested in indulging fuck-ups."

"Sir," Amy's voice cuts, "Grant gave off every indication of knowing about Liza's murder. He hovered over her mother the entire time we were trying to ask questions—"

"I don't give a shit. You think he was involved, he runs away, get a damned warrant for his arrest."

Amy narrows her eyes. "And let him disappear in the meantime?"

"We have a suspect. If we have evidence pointing to him, that's good enough for the man upstairs. Let the asshole run. I don't need heroics or theatrics from you, girl."

The room hangs silent as Amy's mouth drops open. Andy steps forward. "Sir, why don't you lay off Detective Sykes? She was just following orders—"

Williams mutters, "Flynn. Great." He turns toward Andy. "No, she was doing something I wanted _you_ to do. Was she not?"

"You told me to find someone else to do it. I chose her. Around here, that's what we call an order." At a pointed look from Provenza, he adds, "Captain."

"As if you'd know." He casts his eyes around the squad. "This place is supposed to be the best-of-the-best? All I've seen so far is subordination and incompetence, I swear to God. Do we wanna sit around in a circle and have a chat about our feelings? Is that what you're used to?"

Andy crosses his arms. The constriction of it helps him think about how awkward it would be if he had to explain away a suspension (or worse) when he got home tonight. "You wanna tell me what you preferred I do?"

"I _preferred_ that you be able to carry out a simple task, given your rank. I _preferred_ for you to be in control of this situation, rather than leaving it to a grade two detective. But you can't handle that, and look what happened." Williams takes a step forward. "Let me be clear on this, Flynn: I don't give a _fuck_ about your supposed health issues. I'm not going to have a do-nothing gimp hanging around this squad."

Stepping to the desk nearest to the Captain, Andy lifts his armful of legal paperwork. "Here's your damned warrants, Captain, all signed off on by Judge Richwood." He slams them onto the blotter. "How's that for do-nothing?"

"I'm supposed to be impressed by your paper-pushing skills? I need a _detective_ , not a secretary." He sneers. "Maybe _some people_ like that, but I'm not your wife, so —"

A flare of rage shoots through Andy. " _Excuse_ me?"

Of all the lines this guy could whip out on his first day, he goes _there_. He's not even gonna pretend that isn't what's eating at him, going straight for the kind of soap opera bullshit that devalues everything the division accomplished under Sharon's leadership.

Through a tightened jaw, Julio says. "No, Captain. You _aren't_."

"But I think you already know that," Amy practically spits.

With a sidelong glance, Mike steps between Andy and Williams. He makes a slight pumping motion with his palms, a silent plea to back off. Andy, upon realizing his hands are clenched into fists at his side, stretches his fingers long. No brawling today. Even if he's tempted.

Williams looks around, finding himself at the center of an aggravated circle of detectives. He takes a sliding step back toward his office. Provenza extends his arm in the same direction. His voice is hard and formal when he says, "Captain. If I could have a word."

Although he's well and truly cornered, Williams' jaw works as he considers the offer. After a few moments, he takes it with a curt nod. Provenza turns and fires a look at Andy as they go.

The door closes behind them. Muffled shouting carries out to the bullpen within seconds. Andy turns from the sound, running his palms over his hair. How the hell had this day — his very first day back — gone so far off the rails?

From behind him, Mike mutters, "Fuck this guy."

That's enough to make Andy spin back around, no doubt looking like a deer in headlights. The surprise of it helps drive the rage out of his spine.

"Oh," Mike grins. "Did I say that _out loud_?"

"Well there's Tao's one f-bomb for the decade," Julio says.

Mike shrugs. "This guy might deserve more than one."

With a deadpan delivery, Andy says, "I'm scandalized, Mike."

He just nods at the warrants. "Want me to get started on setting those up?"

"Yeah, please." Andy catches Amy's eye. "What hospital is Wes at?"

"USC." She shrugs. "But he's probably done by now. They just wanted to put a few stitches in the cut on his cheek."

"Okay." Another outburst floats from the office. Andy finds himself in a situation straight out of childhood, back when his parents used to have screaming arguments behind their bedroom door. Now, as then, he reaches for normalcy. "Uh, Amy, go ahead and type up your interview notes. Julio, did you finish pulling Somerset's financials?"

"Yeah, and there's nothing interesting in them, sir."

"Okay, go ahead and pull Grant's, too. Hold off on digging through 'em, though. I'm hoping we can get out of here soon." Julio answers with a nod.

With the rest of the team looking busy or otherwise indisposed, Andy sets to adding copies of the warrants to their casefile. As the office plugs away in quiet concentration, he can't miss Provenza's words, "...don't get too comfy, Captain," just before the door opens. His partner rubs his hands together at his waist as he steps out into the bullpen. "Okay, everyone. Long day. Let's call it quits for now and get a fresh start tomorrow."

Julio is up and moving before Provenza stops taking, no doubt anxious to get home to Mark. "Thank you, sir."

Andy relates to Julio's quick exit. Still, he lingers for a moment as Provenza makes his way back to the front of the Murder Room. Andy weighs the wisdom of discussing this in the office against his own need to get home. He jangles his keys in his pocket and keeps his voice low when he asks, "What the hell is going on?"

Provenza's jaw sets into a rock hard line, then he stretches his neck. "It's nothing you need to worry about, Flynn."

"You sure? Because I could go with—"

"I'll take care of it," he grits. After a moment and a slow shake of his head, he lifts his eyes to Andy's. "It's the damndest thing. Forty years into this job, and I'm still coming across shit I never thought I'd see."

"And it's not good shit, either."

"No, it isn't." Provenza draws a long breath, taking a moment to look around the office, his gaze locking on Amy for a moment. She's still bent over her computer, typing up her notes. "Get out of here, Sykes."

"But—"

"It can wait until tomorrow." Once she starts moving, he nods at Andy. "Go home, Flynn. Tell the Commander..." He trails off with a dark laugh and another shake of his head. "Well, tell the Commander that we miss her."


	6. Be Here Now

Even on the morning of Sharon's transplant surgery, the possibility felt like a dream that could flip to a nightmare at any second.

They'd taken another late-night trip to Cedars-Sinai just the week before, when Sharon had been selected as a backup recipient for a heart flown up from San Diego. After two hours spent in a quiet, white room, the originally intended recipient went into surgery as expected. Sharon showed not even a hint of fear or anger or disappointment when she got the news.

As always, she was a better person than her husband.

This night felt different, as soon as her phone rang at 2 A.M.. From the second they walked through the door of the hospital, they were in the center of a vortex, medical staff directing Sharon to go here, sign this, put this on, wait in this room, swallow these pills. Once the surge of scrubs flowing in and out of her room had slowed to a trickle, Sharon asked Andy to get her rosary from her suitcase.

The wait was rough. Every time someone walked around the curtain, he expected to hear that there was something wrong with the heart, or someone the doctor deemed more worthy was going to get it, or the transplant surgeon had been in a horrific accident, or or or…

More than one nurse asked if they needed anything, but Andy was content to hold Sharon while she prayed. He sent up his own much less organized, and much more desperate, silent pleas for her safety alongside. She murmured Hail Marys with the focused flow of the devoted as she held each bead between her thumb and forefinger. But the doctors had pumped her full of God-knows-what to prepare for the surgery. Her voice began to fade as she finished the fourth decade, and dropped into breathy near-nothingness as she finished the Glory Be, "World without end, Amen."

Andy turned his eyes upward for a moment. Aware that his years of lax practice were probably about to show, he muttered to The Big Guy, "Remember, it's the thought that counts." He twined his fingers with Sharon's, around the rosary, found the next bead and cleared his throat. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"

She sniffled and leaned heavier into him and mouthed along with the words. He made it through the last set of prayers with less assurance, but just as much reverence, as she would have said them herself, and came away proud that his voice only faltered on "at the hour of our death" once.

(Okay. It was more than once. But less than ten times.)

Memory is a funny thing. Some days he spends a half hour trying to remember where he left his car keys the evening before. On others he can picture the tie a defendant wore during a two-day trial ten years ago. But the Catholic Church has a way of driving itself, deeply and irrevocably, into the brains of its young. Andy couldn't remember the last time he prayed the rosary, but on this morning he said the Hail, Holy Queen without as much as stuttering, even as he glared fire at the orderlies who threatened to roll Sharon from the room before they got the chance to finish.

She finished with the Sign of the Cross, then pressed the rosary into Andy's palm. "Thank you," she whispered, her gaze sharpening through tears as she met his eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too." He pressed a lingering kiss to her lips. "I'll see you soon."

He trailed Sharon down the hall, through hallways too stark and cold to contain such a warm soul, walking after the bed until they wheeled her into the guts of the hospital, somewhere he couldn't follow. Only then did he notice he still clutched her rosary. Only then did he let his fear and anger and grief and hope turn his breath shuddery as he half-slumped against the wall.

He kept the rosary gripped in his fist until the surgeon ducked into the waiting room, wearing a smile.

"Mr. Flynn?"

—

After the day he's had, getting home is like a full-body sigh of relief.

It's a relief that lasts for all of two seconds, until Andy picks up on the sounds floating from the kitchen, metal clinking on glass, oil sizzling, the thud of something heavy hitting the bottom of the sink. From all that, the best sound rises above:

"Well, I'm so glad you made it back for your dress rehearsals."

Andy steps into the bedroom to shuck off his jacket and drape it over the chair. Rolling his sleeves as he goes, he makes his way toward the kitchen.

Sharon's voice stretches like honey. "Oh, that sounds _promising_."

He catches her eye when he rounds the corner, and her resulting smile warms his chest. She angles the phone from her mouth to say, "Hey, handsome."

This. This is the life. Forget the awful new captain and the dead girl and the hole that anger burned into his gut. Andy could get through damned near anything with this as his reward at the end of the day.

He dips his head to kiss Sharon once, twice. "Hey babe."

As he wraps his arms around her, she brings the phone back forward. "Of course, who else would it be?" A beat, and then, "Sure." With a few pokes, they're on speaker. "Okay, you're on."

"Hi Andy."

The only possible benefit of Sharon's illness is that it brought her kids home for several extended visits. Not only was it good for their mother, having them around, but Andy enjoyed getting to know his now-stepchildren better. He's always had a certain rapport with Ricky, who makes it back to LA on a semi-regular basis, anyway. But in those long, tense hospital days, he forged a bond with Emily that was altogether different, more serious but also more understanding.

"Hey Em. How's it going?"

"Oh, fine. Just dealing with the usual dancer drama."

"Uh-oh. Are the tutus flying again?"

With a dry laugh, she says, "Just about."

"Mmm, and she has a _date_ ," Sharon adds.

"A date, huh?" Andy eases the spoon from her phoneless hand, ignoring the pointed stare directed his way. "Kinda burying the lede, aren't you?"

He stirs the onions caramelizing on the stove as Emily explains how it isn't a big deal, it's just coffee, and the guy is so busy with school anyway…

"School?" Andy asks, bracing himself for the worst. "What kind of school?"

Needlessly biased or not, he shudders to think of another future lawyer in the family.

"Oh my gosh," Emily laughs, "the two of you are _so_ transparent."

He trades a look with Sharon, whose flattened lips and a quick lift of her brows tell him that they've asked the same thing, with the same point of curiosity.

Probably not the same motivation, though.

Continuing with her answer, Emily says, "He's in an MBA program at NYU."

Andy grimaces. That's hardly any better. Sharon holds up her finger to keep him quiet as she prompts her daughter. "And?"

Emily sighs. " _And_ he's from Pasadena."

Sharon brings her palms together in a few silent claps, beaming at the distant possibility of this unknown guy dragging her daughter back to California. Andy pulls her against his side, even as he rolls his eyes at her optimism. "I see."

"I mean, he seems pretty smart and interesting, so—" A faint noise cuts off her words. "And I guess he's here."

Holding the phone closer to her mouth, Sharon says, "Okay, have fun! Let me know how it goes!"

Andy passes on his own advice, "Remember, Em, if your gut says he's a creep, he's a creep."

If he isn't mistaken, a very Sharonesque snorted laugh comes out of the speaker. "Thanks Andy."

"Let us know if you need an SOS call."

Sharon pokes his chest. "She'll be fine," she says, then into the phone, "bye, honey."

"Bye!"

"Well. That's exciting," he says, reaching over to adjust the heat on the burner. "Good for her."

Emily had reflected, in one of their meandering, sleep-deprived conversations, that she'd unapologetically bypassed anything approaching a serious relationship as she focused on building her career. And now she's started to feel the absence — that gnawing, throbbing hurt that tends to show up when you can no longer ignore how nice it'd be to have someone to lean on, someone to trust, someone to care for.

Andy told her that he knew exactly what she meant, and that if he and her mom could find it, after all this time, she certainly could too. Now maybe she's taking a step in that direction.

Sharon runs her palm down his back. Even with this calming gesture, he can sense her attention has moved away from her daughter. The curiosity she gives off is as obvious as the burn of cut onions tickling at his nose. He isn't sure that he's ready to discuss it, though.

The better option is to just enjoy her presence for a few more uncomplicated moments. "So, how was your day?"

She huffs out a dry laugh. "Oh, it was just _thrilling_."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. I went out for a swim at the beach this morning, ran seven miles, hiked up to the Observatory," she pauses, dreaming up another adventure, "went hang-gliding…"

"Uh-huh." Sharon would never do half of those things, even if her original heart was in place and fully functioning. "So that incision's feeling better?"

Her faux bravado fades into a grimace. "No." She skims her fingers along her breastbone, barely touching the cotton of her shirt. "It still aches every time I move."

"Oh," he frowns, "you wanna take it easy for—"

" _No_ ," she pulls the word out into a warning that's become all too familiar. "I've been doing nothing _but_ taking it easy all day." Her eyes flit upward and she adds, "All _month_."

"I think that's allowed." Andy stirs the onions again, keeping his other arm curled around her waist. "What're you making?"

"Dijon lentil and kale salad with broiled salmon."

With all their forced leisure time as of late, their cooking game has stepped up several notches. It's started to feel almost like a competition. "Fancy."

"If you say so." She gently tugs at his tie, and the gig is up. "So?"

"So?" He teases.

With an impressive eyeroll, she says, " _So_ how did it go?"

The last thing Sharon needs is to be worried about what's happening in the Murder Room. She can't do anything to fix it, of course, but that wouldn't keep her from worrying. And it wouldn't be limited to just Andy, either. She's protective of everyone on that squad, and everything they've accomplished as a unit. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that their new CO seems hellbent on tearing it apart, or that there's a Sharon-sized hole in the middle of the division.

Before he can work out some platitude to toss out, she catches on to his contemplation. "It went _that_ well, huh?"

"No, no. It was fine. Just a little...weird."

"Yeah?" She isn't gonna let him just keep it at that. Of course.

He figures that deflection might be his best strategy, "I think Provenza misses you. I got a ten-minute grilling over your healing process."

"Oh, that's so sweet."

"Him? Or me, for having to deal with it?"

Her soft laugh melts into a hum. "Both." With a firm hand on his chest, she guides him away from the stove. "Now, let me finish making dinner."


	7. Recovering

As Andy stood up to approach the surgeon, every ounce of attention in the waiting room pinpointed onto his back. His friends' muted conversations faded into silence. He dropped a hand onto Rusty's shoulder when the kid appeared at his side.

At getting a good, close-up look at the doctor's smile, Andy knew it was gonna be okay. The guy looked impossibly young to have been holding Sharon's hearts — old and new — in his hands, sure, but in this moment all that mattered was that his expression reached his eyes. There's no faking that. He had good news.

"I'm Doctor Onodera." As Andy shook his hand, the man continued, "I have to say, I wish every patient I saw in the OR was in as good health as your wife." He inclines his head, "Relatively speaking, of course."

As nice as the guy seemed, Andy wasn't in the mood for small talk. "So you're saying that Sharon's okay?"

The doctor's smile somehow widened. "I'm saying she's doing exceptionally well. Everything went as expected in the surgery. In fact, we were able to get the new heart placed and pumping more quickly than usual."

Andy let the breath he released carry his head and shoulders forward, sliding away the weight they'd been holding for weeks. This was it: the gate to their greener pastures. Sharon was gonna live. They would have their life together.

He straightened and clasped Onodera's hand again. "Thank you, Doctor."

"My pleasure, believe me." He rested his palm on Andy's elbow. "This is only the beginning of her recovery, of course, but I think she should be just fine."

Rusty leaned into the conversation. "Can we go see her?"

"It'll be several hours until Sharon comes around from the anesthesia and we can remove the ventilator. We'll want to hold off on most visitors until then, since she'll be in a sterile post-op room." He glanced to Andy. "Once we get her settled in there, I can have a nurse come get you, if you'd like to see her."

"Please."

Following another round of thanks, the doctor headed back into the depths of the hospital. Andy squeezed Rusty's shoulder as they traded relieved grins. "You wanna call your brother, let him know what's going on so he's not driving like a maniac to get down here?"

"Yeah, of course."

With the kid strolling into the hallway, poking at his phone, Andy turned to the group. Their hesitant, hopeful attention left his throat tightening. Swallowing past it, he held out his hands and said, "Sharon's out of surgery and doing great."

The news was met with a collective sigh of relief and several muttered _Thank God_ s. He went on, "The doc said she's in great shape, so he was able to get the new heart in and working in no time."

Provenza piped up, "Well, we would expect nothing less."

"True." Andy rolled back through the doctor's points. "Uh, it'll be tomorrow, probably, before she's really 'with it' enough for visitors—"

"Don't worry about it, Andy," Mike said. "We came for moral support."

"Yeah," Julio added, in a darker tone, "that and we could've gone and found her another heart if this one hadn't worked out."

Andy chuckled, "I'm sure she would've appreciated that." He cleared his throat, going back to Mike's point. "But seriously, I'm grateful to all of you for coming, and I know Sharon will be, too, once I tell her about the turnout."

"It's the least we could do," Andrea said as she gathered her jacket. "Let her know that I'll stop by once she's ready for a distraction."

The others followed her lead, picking up their stuff and trading good-natured complaints about the inevitably short amount of time they had until the next murder rolled in. They left in a string of goodbyes to Rusty and Andy, until Provenza and Patrice were the only holdouts.

"When it comes to distractions, your wife isn't the only one who'll be in need." Provenza poked Andy's shoulder. "So you call me when you've had enough of this place."

Patrice reinforced the point with a firm stare. "Don't burn yourself out, Andy. Get home every once in a while."

"I'll be fine." It was a hedge of a response, but Andy had no intention of spending much time away from the hospital as long as Sharon was there. He just didn't have the energy to muster a believable lie.

Unswayed by Andy's answer, Patrice narrowed her eyes before pulling him into a hug and turning her efforts to Rusty. He seemed to be more receptive to her message, promising that he'd leave the hospital to sleep in his own bed that night.

True to Doctor Onodera's word, a nurse came into the waiting room a half-hour or so after everyone else cleared out. She guided Andy through a maze of nondescript hallways, to a sink where he scrubbed his hands pink under near-scalding water. She handed him a mask to slide onto his face, a cap for over his hair, and a gown for over his clothes. Then, finally, she led him to a wide doorway, where his own heart nearly stopped.

Given the number of machines in the room, stretching onto the bed, around and into the form lying prone there, it was almost impossible for Andy to tell that it was Sharon. Almost. The particular hue of her hair and the line of her profile told the truth. A steady in-out hiss filled the space, with beeps sounding in between. He told himself that this was part of the plan, that it all meant that she was on her way to being better.

Still, the view sat like a boulder on his chest. It was wrong, seeing Sharon like this, seemingly worse off than ever. The nurse murmured about the ventilator, the pain medication, the heavy effects of anesthesia. After a long silence, she gestured toward the door and said she'd be back around in a few minutes.

With his feet weighing like anvils, Andy tread into the room and close to the bed. Sharon looked tiny in the tangle of wires and tubes and gadgetry surrounding her. Her skin was a blunt shade of white under blueish lights. Her chest rose and fell in a too-perfect, mechanical rhythm.

He found her hands icy, so he cupped one, then the other, between his own as he settled into the chair at the head of the bed. He smoothed her hair where it had bunched up against the pillow. His voice came muffled from under the mask when he said, "Hey. Looks like all those Hail Marys did the trick."

It struck him as a surrender, talking at the room's volume. Shoving aside a moment of self-consciousness aimed toward the nurses camped out near the door, he cleared his throat and spoke to her like he would over breakfast on any other morning. "The doc said you were one of the best patients he's ever had. Can't say I'm surprised."

He cast his eyes around the half-dark space, open to the nurses' station outside. Had she been awake to see it, she would've hated the lack of privacy. "You're not gonna have to be in here very long, Sharon. As soon as you come around, they'll move you to a better room." He brought her hand to the mask covering his mouth, letting the gesture stand in for the lack of contact. "It's all downhill from here."

It was hard to tell how long he spent there, but when the nurse led Andy back to the waiting room, it was to find both of his stepsons standing near the door. He shook his head at Ricky. "How many laws did you break to get here so fast?"

Ricky smirked. "I'm not telling you anything, five-oh." After they exchanged a hug, he added, "Looks like I made it just in time."

Sharon would scold her son for putting himself and others at risk, no matter how noble his intentions. But Andy couldn't bring himself to even try. "You did." He clapped Ricky on the back. "She's out of surgery. I'm sure she'll be around in no time."

Of course, 'no time' is a relative term, and none of them were particularly patient in waiting for Sharon to wake up. Rusty paced the length of the waiting room countless times. Ricky used anything within arms' reach as fidget fodder. Andy, who'd hit the point of exhaustion hours before, closed his eyes to block out their movements and tried to get some sleep.

Some hours later, a different nurse came, calling out to where Andy dozed on two chairs arranged seat-to-seat. This guy was beaming. "Your wife's awake. We've moved her into her new room, if you want to check in with her."

From the next chairs over, Ricky and Rusty glanced at each other before bounding from their seats and out the doorway. In contrast, Andy was left practically creaking and dragging along behind them, still pulling himself into consciousness. The nurse pointed the guys toward the nearest elevator bank as he waited for Andy in the doorway.

"I'm Alonzo, one of the transplant nurses here," he said as the four of them waited for the elevator to arrive on their floor. "You'll be seeing a lot of me over the next few weeks." He chuckled. "Lucky you."

After the group stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor, Alonzo explained the facilities, speaking loud enough for Rusty and Ricky to hear it from several steps ahead. "This is the surgical ICU. Rooms up here are doubles, so your visitation time is still limited. In a few days, once Sharon's condition is stable, we'll move her to the step-down unit, and you'll be able to visit as long as you want. They'll even be a couch in that suite, if you want to stay overnight."

"That's great," Andy said. After that morning, seeing Sharon out of the ICU was going to be a victory. The prospect of sleeping on something other than a weakly padded waiting room chair was just icing on the cake.

"But, for now," Alonzo continued, coming to stop in a doorway, "this is it."

Andy smirked as the guys had to backtrack from where they'd sped halfway down the hallway. Alonzo's finger wagged between the two of them, "You heard everything I told your father, right?"

"Uh—" Andy started an explanation, only to be cut off by Rusty.

"We're in the ICU, there's another person in there, we still have time limits for visiting," he recited while peering into the room.

"Don't worry, we got it." Ricky's eyes took on a familiar, mischievous glint just before his smile widened and he clapped Andy on the shoulder. "Right, Pops?"

Andy fought the urge to roll his eyes and focused on the nurse instead. "Thanks for filling us in, Alonzo."

"My pleasure," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."

Alonzo didn't get more than two steps away before Ricky and Rusty rushed into the room. Andy noted the number on the doorplate before following them in.

"Mom!" Ricky leaned over the bed, his long frame towering over Sharon. "Hey!"

"Ricky?" Her voice was heavy, fuzzy at the edges. "What are you doing here?"

"I got in the car as soon as Andy called." He let out a choked laugh. "Did you really think I'd miss being here to celebrate your brand new heart?"

Andy, with his mood lifted by the sight of Sharon awake and talking, couldn't help but add, "Well, it's not _brand_ new. More like gently used."

His lame joke left her holding her hand out to him, and he was all too glad to take it. He claimed the unoccupied side of her bed, finding a perch on the mattress that avoided the wires trailing along the sheets. "Hey, beautiful."

There's a hint of a laugh on her next exhale. "Flatterer."

"No, really, Mom," Ricky said, with a heavy dose of earnestness, "you're looking great for someone who had her heart switched out this morning."

Rusty added, "Yeah, if I didn't know any better I'd say this was just another random hospital visit."

Sharon snorted gently, then groaned, bringing her free hand to her chest. "Hopefully I'll get to the point of actually feeling that way, too."

Running his thumb over her knuckles, Andy said, "You will. Soon."

At the foot of the bed, Rusty's phone chirped. He swiped at the screen and stared at it for a moment. "Ah, Emily's getting on a plane right now."

Ricky lifted his chin in his brother's direction. "She's flying into LAX?"

"Burbank."

"Nice," Ricky said, "should be easy to pick her up. I need to stop by the condo anyway. Uh," his eyes flit between Andy and Sharon, "assuming it's okay if I crash there."

Andy waves him off, "Of course."

" _Someone_ might as well stay there," Sharon said, fixing Andy with a firm look that he met with a shrug.

Ricky took a smooth sidestep around that point of conflict. "Cool, because I'm feeling a little grungy and should probably borrow a shower."

Sharon hummed. "Why don't you do that now? Get some food and rest up before Emily gets here, then I'll see you all again tonight."

" _Always_ on top of the situation," Rusty teased. He tapped his phone into his palm a few times, brows creased, before telling Ricky, "I think I'll head over there with you."

"Okay, Mom." Ricky leaned down to press a kiss to Sharon's cheek. "We'll see you later."

"Rest," Rusty commanded with a smile as he echoed Ricky's movements.

Sharon's eyes trailed around the room. "I don't think I have much of a choice, honey." A hint of defeat colored her voice.

After the guys disappeared down the hall, she let her head fall back against the pillow, angling herself toward Andy. Her voice went delicate as she struggled to keep her eyes open. "You know, I was gonna tell you.."

"Tell me what?"

"That I love you."

He smiled, pressed his lips to the back of her hand, mindful of the IV inserted there. "You did, babe. You did. Don't worry."

"No." The corner of her mouth tipped upward. "Not now. Before."

"Before when?"

"Your neck." She reached over to brush the faint scar he carries, a reminder of the blood clot that could have ended all of this years ago.

The confession nearly stole his breath away. The only response he could manage was, "Oh."

That, Andy hadn't known. With the deliberate pace of their relationship, he always figured that Sharon had trailed well behind his own realizations: that he couldn't imagine his life without her, that her smile was the best part of his days, that he wanted to hold her hand for the rest of his life. That he _loved_ her.

And that was okay. He'd been willing to wait her out, as long as it took. Sharon was worth it. But, apparently, she'd been right there with him.

She sighed, "I was so afraid, for you." Rolling her head back and forth on the pillow, she says, "Afraid I'd never see you again. But I couldn't say it." Her brow creased. "I don't know why."

"I get it." He ran his thumb along her knuckles. "I wanted to tell you the same thing, that day."

Her smile returned, even as her eyelids slipped closed. "Mhmm. We make quite the pair."

"Yeah, we do." She was fading fast, pulled under the effect of whatever medications flowed into her veins. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and made the point he'd been kicking around all day. "I know it's been hard, Sharon. But I'm just...so proud of you for going through with this."

She hums out a slow laugh. "Because of you." Her next exhale was a happy sigh. "You're the best husband."

With the squabbles they'd had over the previous weeks, the tears, the stretches of silent tension fed by the conflict between his concerns and her desires, there were times he'd felt old worries creeping in, that he was gonna screw it all up, that he would push her too far and end up ruining their marriage like he'd ruined his first one. But it hadn't happened. She'd stuck with him, even when she was annoyed enough to find ways to avoid him within their cozy home.

They'd made it through.

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Only because you're the best wife."

As her breathing started to even out, he drew her rosary from his pocket. He curled it into her palm, back where it belonged, before settling into the beside chair. He stayed there, basking in the steady rise and fall of her chest, until a nurse beckoned him back toward the waiting room.

—

Andy manages to avoid The Conversation until he's changed out of his work clothes, set the table, and is halfway through dinner. But once they've exhausted idle chit-chat over their plans to catch a few spring training games in Phoenix, he catches Sharon assessing him over a long sip of water. She places the glass back onto the table in an extra delicate motion, even as she angles her shoulders toward him. "So, really. How was it?"

"You wanna know the truth?"

Her head dips as she says, "Of course."

"Not good." Not wanting to jump right into a rant about the asshole sitting in her old office, Andy leads with the more personal aspect, the thing that'd been jabbing at him since Williams first suggested his uselessness this afternoon. "I didn't know that you'd been…" he shakes his head, not quite sure how to put it. "That you'd been protecting me."

"What do you mean?"

"Keeping me on the squad, after my heart attack."

"Mmm, protection?" Sharon cuts her eyes away from him, her lips tilting into a half-smile. "I didn't see it like that."

"No?"

"No. I _needed_ you there."

Andy sighs. That's just another way for her to say she shielded his ass, as far as he's concerned. It's a confirmation of a years-old fear, that he'd been kept on in Major Crimes after his blood clot situation, and, later, his heart attack, thanks only to the solid force of her will.

He was fine with Sharon being the boss. In fact, as today showed, he preferred it. That's the context under which he got to know her, became friends with her, and eventually fell in love with her, after all. Their marriage is built upon that experience. But he hates the idea of her having spent her hard-earned political capital to keep him in his job, if anyone else in her position would've kicked him to the curb.

As if reading his mind, she adds, "It had nothing to do with our relationship, either."

Andy can't quite strip his doubt from his voice as he says, "Really."

"That would've been completely inappropriate!" Her voice rises as she gets to the end of her point.

"Okay," he sighs, spearing a piece of fish onto his fork.

Sharon leans toward him, bringing her elbow to rest on the table, her palm supporting her chin. That's to say, she settles into her point: "Who else could get a wiretap warrant written up, in front of a judge, and approved in a matter of two hours? Who else could I send into an interview with Julio to get the toughest subjects talking?" When his only reaction is to glumly chew a mouthful of salad, she nudges his hand where it rests on the placemat. "Who else could I trust to reliably charm the clerks into giving us the best slots at the courthouse?"

"I guess."

"Besides, as our cases became more complex, it was obvious I needed another hand back at home base." Her posture straightens as she reaches for her water. "And when you were on light duty, I articulated that need to Chief Taylor. And Chief Howard." Her smile turns sly. "And Chief Mason."

He drops his head back, staring at the ceiling as he imagines those conversations. "Oh my God."

"Andy," she chides. "You deserved to stay. I don't know what else to tell you."

"Right." He exhales, dropping his attention back to his dinner. He aims to bring the conversation to its end with a mumbled, "Thank you."

Sharon relaxes into her chair. "So, the new captain…" At his raised brow, she continues, "Who is he?"

"Neil Williams." Andy swipes his last crust of bread through the remains of vinaigrette on his plate and pops it into his mouth, talking around it as he asks, "You know him?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well," he stacks her empty plate on top of his own, "I think he might be a little out of his league."

"You're judging him based on his _first day_?"

Williams' words, _I am not your wife_ , sneak into Andy's head as he carries the dishes to the sink. "He earned it. Believe me."

Ignoring the hint that he would handle clean up on his own, Sharon trails him into the kitchen and sets to digging out a pair of containers for the leftovers. "So you caught a case, then?"

"Oh. Yeah, we did." With all of the personal bullshit going on, he'd nearly forgotten their actual _work_ , the circumstances under which Williams had shown his complete lack of human decency. As he loads the dishwasher, Andy lays out the basics of what they know so far. He leaves out the botched responses from the brass and glosses over his visit to the hospital, but otherwise covers the facts of the case.

"Sounds like an interesting one." Sharon hands him the serving spoons and skillet. Her voice goes mischievous, "So why do you think the Captain is in over his head?"

"He just doesn't seem...suited." Andy grits as he pictures Williams' ruddy face glaring up at him. "You sure you've never heard of this guy?"

She frowns. "What's his name again?"

"Neil Williams."

"No, the name isn't familiar. Why?"

"Ah," He rubs at his neck, having steered himself right into a dead end, as far as his plan to not tell her what's going on. As a last-ditch effort, he flips into reverse. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sharon looks up from sealing one of the containers, watching him over the frames of her glasses. She pushes the leftovers toward him across the counter and nods toward the fridge. He's barely turned around before she asks, "What did he do?"

He sighs into the refrigerator. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ , you were itching to get back to work. Now you're in a terrible mood while there's a halfway decent case going on, and you're asking me if I _know_ your new CO. So you must think he's done something."

Andy closes the fridge to find Sharon standing cross-armed and unamused. She adds, "I haven't lost my mind, you know."

"I know." He settles his back against the cool steel as he rubs his palms over his face a few times. There's no getting around it, now. He starts with the basics. "Williams was a patrol captain, before this. Down in Harbor."

Her eyes narrow. "Okay…"

"I guess he hasn't even taken the detectives' course."

"That isn't a requirement for leading an investigative division."

"I know, but it seems strange, don't you think?" He holds his palm out, emphasizing his point. "Given the specific reason that Major Crimes exists?"

Sharon offers him a subdued nod. "Okay, yes. I'd agree that it's an odd choice."

"So he's shown up, out of nowhere, and he has the most…asshole attitude I've ever seen on a CO." When she rolls her lips together and drops her eyes, he gets the message loud and clear. "Yeah, _I know_ , I don't have much room to talk. But believe me, the guy is a next-level bastard."

"I wasn't going to say you don't have room to talk, for what it's worth. I was going to point out that you're not always the most welcoming when someone new shows up."

"I'm willing to admit this." He holds his hands up for a beat, then stuffs them into his pockets as he says, "Even so, this guy isn't okay."

Sharon draws closer toward him, her brows furrowed. "Why do you say that?"

"Because, on top of the way he's treated all of us so far," he shakes his head, "Amy said that he had a reputation, back at Harbor, for harassing his female officers."

A shadow crosses her face. "According to whom?"

"According to her friends who work down there." Andy frowns, considering a point he'd been kicking around since lunch. "I think they warned her about him."

"Then I don't understand how he could've gotten the job."

"Maybe there aren't any official reports." He shrugs. "I mean, you don't know his name."

"That wasn't really my area, Andy."

"Fair enough." That wasn't worth arguing over. None of it was. "But I'd say, even if there _are_ reports, Williams has friends in high places."

Sharon searches his face. "You believe that he did it, though. That's what you're saying."

"After the show he put on today? Absolutely."

With a sly half-smile, she holds her hand out to him. When he takes it, she guides him into the living room and onto the couch. He finds a grin curling his own mouth as she takes a moment to settle into the cushions _just so_. Finally, she rests their entwined hands on her knee and says, "Okay. Tell me everything."

Even with the gentle delivery, the words form what's known in this household as 'an order.' So Andy spills, going so far as to sketch out a vague picture of Williams' annoyance with Sharon herself, after he's covered all of the yelling and cursing and the Captain's questionable approach toward Amy.

He finishes with, "And as for me...Williams doesn't want me there."

"What do you mean?"

"He tried to send me out into the field twice, then basically called me useless when I told him I couldn't."

Andy doesn't miss the flash of anger in her eyes. "He said that?"

"I mean, I think his exact words were along the lines of 'lazy' and 'incompetent,' with the bonus of him explaining how he could have detectives lined up to kiss his boots in exchange for my job." He forces a chuckle. "So I might be joining you in retirement sooner than we expected."

"Oh," Sharon groans, wrapping her arm across his chest. She presses a kiss to his neck before resting her head on his shoulder. "That's what all that 'protection' talk was about."

He brushes his lips to her hairline. "It's okay. I've had worse." And he has. Maybe he hasn't had a boss throwing barbs that poke at his deepest professional fears, but he _has_ had worse. At least Williams hasn't thrown him under the bus on a murder case.

 _Yet._

"I wish I could help." Her voice is muffled against his sweatshirt.

"I know, babe. That's why I didn't want to tell you."

She stiffens. "Uh-uh." Sharon pulls back to look at him. Her stare has sharpened again. "I don't want you holding back about work. Or anything else, really. But definitely not work."

"I just didn't want you feeling guilty."

"I'd rather feel guilty than be left wondering why you're upset." She runs her fingers through the hair at his temple. "I don't care how awful this Williams is. He's just temporary, Andy. _We're_ forever."

That truth leaves him smiling. "Yeah, we are." He dips his mouth to hers, into a kiss that she deepens almost immediately, her lips parting below his. It's his turn to groan as he pulls back just enough to say, "How many more weeks of sternum healing do you have ahead of you?"

"Mm, four."

" _Four weeks_ ," he repeats, brushing her lips again. "That's a lot of days."

It isn't like sex is the end-all-be-all of their relationship, but Andy misses the intimacy, the moments where his focus narrows only to _her_ , not her heart or the worries they share. There's no substitute for the distraction and release it brings. And given her approach as of late, Sharon misses it, too.

"Maybe we can come up with a…" Her words fade into a sigh as his mouth finds the hollow behind her earlobe.

He mumbles, "A what?"

"A workaround," she sighs.

He's only started rifling through those possibilities when the deadbolt in the front door clicks open. They disentangle as smoothly as teenagers caught under the bleachers at a football game. With a respectable amount of space between them, Andy can't help but toss out a parting shot as the door opens. "I _do_ like workarounds."

Sharon rolls her eyes as Rusty steps into the condo, his arm curling a stack of folders against his chest as he locks the door behind him. "Hey," he says, settling his load onto the desk. "Sorry I missed dinner. We're slammed with trial prep right now."

"Not a problem," Sharon says. "There's leftovers in the fridge, if you're hungry."

"Ah, Andrea actually treated us to dinner since we were working so late."

"That was nice of her."

"Yeah, well, I think I might actually be overdosing on hamburgers."

Andy lifts a brow. " _What?_ "

"I know, I know," Rusty chuckles. "I almost can't believe it myself."

"Well, you can always try packing some food to take with you," Sharon calls as he disappears around the corner and into the kitchen.

"That takes, like, way more brainspace than I have right now, Mom."

"Brainspace?" She scoffs. "It takes brainspace to pull a container out of the refrigerator and stick it in your bag?"

"Yeah," he reappears with a Coke. "It does."

"I never quite figured out that skill either." Andy nods at the kid. "Did you get what you needed from Buzz and Provenza today?"

"I did, yeah. Buzz even put all the footage onto a DVD for the courtroom."

"Oh, you went up to the office?" Sharon's voice goes deceptively light. "So what did _you_ think of the new captain?"

"Uh…" Rusty looks at Andy, no doubt hoping for a hint on how to answer. Andy just gives him a shrug, _tell her whatever you want, kid,_ which leads to him saying, "Well, he's kind of a huge jerk, actually."

Andy nods. "Understatement of the year."

"Keep in mind that this was his first day." Sharon offers the Captain a half-hearted defense that seems to exist more for Rusty's sake than anyone else's. "No one is at their best on their first day in a new situation." She softens her point with a little hair flip and an added, "Not even me."

"Yeah, I remember," Andy mutters.

This earns him a throw pillow to the face. He recovers from the impact in time to catch Sharon wincing from the motion, bringing her palm to her chest. But it quickly becomes a half-stern, half-amused stare. She points at him. "You weren't exactly helping, back then."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Oh, yes you did."

"Oh my God," Rusty sighs, rolling his eyes as he heads toward his room. Even so, he can't hide the smile in his voice when he says, "Let me know when you're done bickering."

Andy raises an eyebrow at Sharon, crooking his thumb toward his retreating form. "Mister Serious Lawyer, over here."

She pokes at his leg with her toes, a silent order to let it go. He takes the opportunity to capture her foot, kneading his thumbs into the sole. Following an appreciative hum, she says, "You want to know what I think you should do about work?"

"Of course."

"I think," she draws the words into a tempting lilt, "you should stay. If Williams wants to get rid of you, then you _make_ him to do it."

"And in the meantime, you expect he'll just...get over it?"

"No," she says, in that troublemaking way of hers, "I think you'll prove yourself to be indispensable."


End file.
